.:     -•:•.?,'.•  '.,    '.••;',•• 


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LIBRARY 

uMivr  fi.->ITY  OF 


DIEGO 


• 


MABEL  T.  STOUT 

"GRAY- LA*  - 
HARRIMAN,        *•  Y. 


a 


GEORGE   MEREDITH 

SOME   EARLY  APPRECIATIONS 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 

SOME   EARLY  APPRECIATIONS 


SELECTED  BY 

MAURICE   BUXTON   FORMAN 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

153-157   FIFTH   AVENUE 
1909 


PREFACE 


THE  twenty-three  articles  contained  in  this  volume 
have  been  chosen  from  a  collection  of  over  one 
hundred  as  worthy  of  preservation  in  a  form  more 
accessible  than  that  in  which  they  originally  ap- 
peared. For  various  reasons  it  has  been  necessary 
to  withhold  several  interesting  papers  which  I 
should  like  to  have  included ;  but  those  gathered 
here  fairly  represent  critical  judgment  on  George 
Meredith's  writing  from  the  year  1851,  when  his  first 
book  was  published,  till  1883,  when  he  issued  his 
"  Poems  and  Lyrics  of  the  Joy  of  Earth,"  the  volume 
which  immediately  preceded  "Diana  of  the  Cross- 
ways  "  ;  and  it  will  hardly  be  disputed  that  these 
papers  from  a  select  band  of  Meredith's  early 
admirers  will  help  the  Meredith  student  of  to-day 
towards  a  better  understanding  of  the  last  of  the 
great  Victorians. 

James  Thomson,  summarizing  George  Meredith's 
position  in  a  review  of  the  second  edition  of  "The 
Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel,"  in  May,  1879,  spoke  of 
"about  thirty  years'  high-minded  and  miserably 
appreciated  labour,"  and  again,  a  few  months  later, 

v 


Preface 

referred  to  William  Ernest  Henley's  article  on  "  The 
Egoist  "  in  The  Athenceum  *  as  "the  first  clear  light  " 
he  had  seen,  the  first  public  utterance  on  Meredith 
"  evincing  the  critic's  familiarity  with  all  the  writer's 
works."  Had  the  author  of  that  lurid  poem  "  The 
City  of  Dreadful  Night "  and  the  magnificent  ottava 
rima  story  of  "  Weddah  and  Om-El-Bonain  "  gone 
a  little  further  afield  in  his  search  for  what  had 
been  written  about  Meredith  between  1851  and  1879, 
he  could  not  have  failed  to  be  pleased  on  encounter- 
ing other  notable  Victorians  who,  like  himself  and 
Meredith,  combined  the  offices  of  poet  and  critic. 
He  would  have  discovered  Richard  Garnett,  author 
of  "  lo  in  Egypt,  and  Other  Poems,"  setting  out  to 
criticize  "  Emilia  in  England  "  thus  : — "  The  an- 
nouncement of  a  new  work  by  Mr.  George  Meredith 
is  necessarily  one  to  provoke  much  curiosity  and 
expectation,"  an  assertion  which,  coming  from  a 
man  of  Dr.  Garnett's  position  in  the  world  of 
letters,  clearly  indicates  that  George  Meredith  had 
even  then  his  band  of  admirers,  in  spite  of  the 
undoubted  fact  that  his  books  were  "  caviare  to  the 
general."  The  admirable  "B.  V."  would  have  found 
in  that  band  such  practitioners  of  both  prose  and 
verse  as  William  Michael  Rossetti  (still  happily  active 
among  us),  Marian  Evans,  gone  before  her  timej 
and  that  supreme  master  of  song-craft,  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne,  who  so  lately  finished  his 
splendid  career  with  stately  utterances  in  prose  on 

*  November  I,    1879,   p.   555.      Extracts  from  this  review  are 
printed  in  "  Views  and  Reviews,"  First  Series,  1890. 

vi 


Preface 

"The  Age  of   Shakespeare,"  and  immediately  pre- 
ceded Meredith  to  join  the  band  of  the  immortals. 

From  the  nature  of  the  present  compilation  it 
necessarily  happens  that  the  pleasant  duty  of  acknow- 
ledging obligations  extends  to  a  considerable  number 
of  friends  and  correspondents.  It  will  perhaps  suffice 
to  name  specifically  those  who  have  done  me  the 
courtesy  to  accede  to  my  request  for  authority  to 
reprint  the  several  papers  in  which  copyright  still 
exists ;  and  I  accordingly  thank  heartily  for  this 
courtesy,  Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti,  Mr.  Theodore  Watts- 
Dunton  as  representative  of  the  late  Mr.  Swinburne, 
Mr.  Robert  Singleton  Garnett  as  his  father's  repre- 
sentative, Miss  Elizabeth  M.  Roscoe  and  Mr.  J.  St. 
Loe  Strachey  in  respect  of  the  late  Richard  Holt 
Hutton's  article,  Mr.  Bertram  Dobell,  Mr.  William 
Reeves,  and  the  Directors  of  Cope  Brothers  and 
Company,  Limited,  in  regard  to  the  essays  of  James 
Thomson  ("B.V."),  the  editors  of  The  Times,  The 
Saturday  Review,  TJte  Morning  Post,  The  Daily 
News,  and  The  Academy,  and  last,  but  not  least, 
the  proprietors  of  TJie  Athenceum,  without  whose 
kind  permission  I  must  have  omitted  two  papers 
which  it  seemed  very  desirable  to  include.  To  Mr. 
William  Maxse  Meredith,  who  has  authorized  me 
to  reprint  the  poems  by  his  father  quoted  in  this 
volume,  I  have  also  to  express  my  thanks. 

MAURICE  BUXTON   FORMAN. 


vn 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PREFACE      v 

I.  WILLIAM   MICHAEL   ROSSETTI    ON    POEMS  : 

1851 3 

II.  CHARLES  KINGSLEY  ON  POEMS  :   1851    .       .      14 

III.  GEORGE    ELIOT     ON    THE     SHAVING    OF 

SHAGPAT,  IN  THE  LEADER      ...     25 

IV.  GEORGE     ELIOT     ON    THE    SHAVING     OF 

SHAGPAT,  IN  THE  WESTMINSTER  REVIEW      38 
V.    GEORGE  ELIOT  ON  FARINA     ....     43 
VI.    THE  TIMES  ON  THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD 

FEVEREL 51 

VII.    JAMES    THOMSON    ON    THE     ORDEAL     OF 

RICHARD  FEVEREL 71 

VIII.    THE   SATURDAY   REVIEW    ON    EVAN    HAR- 
RINGTON        89 

IX.    ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  ox  MODERN 

LOVE 99 

X.    RICHARD  GARNETT  ON  EMILIA  IN  ENGLAND     107 
XI.    THE     SATURDAY       REVIEW      ON      RHODA 

FLEMING 119 

XII.    THE  MORNING  POST  (MR.  HUME)  ON  RHODA 

FLEMING 129 

ix 


Contents 


PACK 

XIII.  THE  SATURDAY  REVIEW  ON  VITTORIA  .       .137 

XIV.  GERALDINE  ENDSOR  JEWSBURY  ON  VITTORIA    146 

XV.  THE  DAILY  NEWS  ON  THE  ADVENTURES  OF 

HARRY  RICHMOND 153 

RICHARD  HOLT  HUTTON  ON    THE  ADVEN- 
TURES OF  HARRY  RICHMOND 


XVI. 

XVII.    JAMES  THOMSON  ON  BEAUCHAMP'S  CAREER, 

IN  COPE'S  TOBACCO  PLANT 
XVIII.    JAMES  THOMSON   ON  BEAUCHAMP'S  CAREER, 

IN  THE  SECULARIST 

WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY  ON  THE  EGOIST 
JAMES  THOMSON  ON  THE  EGOIST  . 
JOSEPH  JACOBS  ON  THE  TRAGIC  COMEDIANS    209 
THE     DAILY     NEWS     ON     THE     TRAGIC 

COMEDIANS 216 

XXIII.    MARK  PATTISON  ON  POEMS  AND  LYRICS  OF 

THE  JOY  OF  EARTH 221 


XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 


157 
171 

173 
191 
194 


POEMS:    1851 


I 

WILLIAM  MICHAEL  ROSSETTI 

ON 

POEMS:  1851 

[This  article  appeared  in  The  Critic ;  vol.  x,  no.  255,  pp.  539~S4O, 
November  15,  1851,  initialled  W.  M.  R.] 

THE  full  poet  is  a  thoroughly  balanced  compound 
of  perception  and  intellect.  By  the  first  faculty  he 
sees  vividly,  and  feels  to  the  inmost ;  by  the  second, 
he  understands  deeply  and  largely,  and  applies  with 
a  subtle  searching  breadth.  The  power  of  expression 
is  a  correlative  of  both ;  but  it  belongs  more  im- 
mediately to  the  first.  Though  Tennyson  had  not 
been  the  author  in  posse  of  "  In  Memoriam,"  he  might 
equally  have  produced  such  perfect  word-painting 
as  we  find  in  "  Mariana  "  ;  but  a  want  of  that  per- 
ception which  constitutes  the  essence  of  the  latter 
would  have  made  the  former  more  faint  from  first 
to  last. 

Of  the  perceptive  poet  we  have  had  no  other 
such  complete  example  as  Keats.  It  is  the  delight 
in  what  he  sees,  the  sympathy  with  what  he  narrates, 
that  endows  him  with  his  marvellous  power  of 
expression.  To  him  everything  was  an  opportunity. 

3  B  2 


William  Michael  Rossetti 


Yet  he  saw  nature  and  emotion  as  rather  suggestive 
than  typical ;  as  exciting  the  thoughts  outwards, 
not  leading  them  inwards.  His  poems  have  but 
little  of  the  unconscious  simile,  (to  be  found  so 
largely  in  those  of  Tennyson  for  instance),  the 
implication  in  description  of  an  inner  essence  and 
ulterior  meaning.  Keats  portrays  his  object  with 
keen,  exquisite  picturing,  but  which  aims  only  at  the 
phenomenal  fact ;  or  else  he  makes  use  of  the  simile 
direct.  His  enthusiasm  was  less  an  inner  fire  than 
a  visible  lambent  halo.  He  saw  loveliness  in  nature, 
or  found  it  the  incentive  to  lovely  thoughts.  He 
rested  in  the  effect.  "  A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy 
for  ever." 

Mr.  Meredith  seems  to  us  a  kind  of  limited 
Keats.  He  is  scarcely  a  perceptive,  but  rather  a 
seeing  or  sensuous  poet.  He  does  not  love  nature 
in  a  wide  sense  as  Keats  did  ;  but  nature  delights 
and  appeals  closely  to  him.  In  proportion,  however, 
as  his  sympathies  are  less  vivid,  excitable,  and 
diffusive,  he  concentrates  them  the  more.  He 
appropriates  a  section  of  nature,  as  it  were ;  and  the 
love  which  he  bears  to  it  partakes  more  of  affection. 
Viewing  Mr.  Meredith  as  a  Keatsian,  and  allowing 
for  (what  we  need  not  stop  to  assert)  the  entire 
superiority  of  the  dead  poet,  we  think  it  is  in  this 
point  that  the  most  essential  phase  of  difference  will 
be  found  between  the  two  ;  and  it  is  one  which,  were 
the  resemblance  in  other  respects  more  marked  and 
more  unmixed  than  it  is,  would  suffice  to  divide  Mr. 
Meredith  from  the  imitating  class.  The  love  of 

4 


on  Poems  :  1851 

Keats  for  nature  was  not  an  affectionate  love  :  it  was 
minute,  searching,  and  ardent,  but  hardly  personal. 
He  does  not  lose  himself  in  nature,  but  contemplates 
her  and  utters  her  forth  to  the  delight  of  all  ages.* 
Indeed,  if  we  read  his  record  aright,  he  was  not, 
either  in  thought  or  in  feeling,  a  strongly  affectionate 
man  ;  and  the  passion  which  ate  into  him  at  the  last 
was  a  mania  and  infatuation,  raging  like  disease,  a 
symptom  and  a  part  of  it.  It  is  otherwise  with 
Mr.  Meredith.  In  his  best  moments  he  seems  to 
sing  because  it  comes  naturally  to  him,  and  silence 
would  be  restraint,  not  through  exuberance  or  inspi- 
ration, but  in  simple  contentedness,  or  throbbing  of 
heart.  There  is  an  amiable  and  engaging  quality 
in  the  poems  of  Mr.  Meredith,  a  human  companion- 
ship and  openness,  which  make  the  reader  feel  his 
friend. 

But,  perhaps,  it  is  chiefly  in  the  impressions  of 
love  that  our  new  poet's  likeness  and  unlikeness  at 
once  to  the  author  of  "  Endymion  "  and  "  Lamia  "  are 
to  be  recognized.  We  are  told  that  women  felt  pique 
at  Keats  for  treating  them  in  his  verses  scarcely 
otherwise  than  flowers  or  perfumes ;  as  beaut ifiers 
and  the  object  of  tender  and  pleasurable  emotion, — 
a  charm  of  life.  They  missed  the  language  of  indi- 
vidual love,  dignified  and  equal.  Nor  was  the 
quarrel  without  a  cause  ;  but  the  reader  will  pro- 
bably, at  the  first  reading  of  the  very  charming, 

*  We  hope  it  is  superfluous  to  explain  that,  in  what  is  here  said  of 
Keats,  we  seek  only  to  discriminate,  not  to  depreciate  ;  and  that  we 
love  and  reverence  him  as  one  of  the  most  glorious  of  poets. — W.  M.  R. 

5 


William  Michael  Rossetti 


melodious,  and  rhythmical  poem  which  we  proceed 
to  quote,  think  us  unfair  in  trying  to  fasten  it  on  Mr. 
Meredith. 

LOVE  IN  THE  VALLEY. 

"  Under  yonder  beech-tree  standing  on  the  green  sward, 

Couch'd  with  her  arms  behind  her  little  head, 
Her  knees  folded  up,  and  her  tresses  on  her  bosom, 

Lies  my  young  love  sleeping  in  the  shade. 
Had  I  the  heart  to  slide  one  arm  beneath  her  ! 

Press  her  dreaming  lips  as  her  waist  I  folded  slow, 
Waking  on  the  instant  she  could  not  but  embrace  me — 

Ah  !  would  she  hold  me,  and  never  let  me  go  ? 

"  Shy  as  the  squirrel,  and  wayward  as  the  swallow ; 

Swift  as  the  swallow  when  athwart  the  western  flood 
Circleting  the  surface  he  meets  his  mirror'd  winglets, — 

Is  that  dear  one  in  her  maiden  bud. 
Shy  as  the  squirrel  whose  nest  is  in  the  pine  tops ; 

Gentle — ah  !  that  she  were  jealous  as  the  dove  ! 
Full  of  all  the  wildness  of  the  woodland  creatures, 

Happy  in  herself  is  the  maiden  that  I  love  ! 

"  What  can  have  taught  her  distrust  of  all  I  tell  her  ? 

Can  she  truly  doubt  me  when  looking  on  my  brows  ? 
Nature  never  teaches  distrust  of  tender  love-tales, 

What  can  have  taught  her  distrust  of  all  my  vows  ? 
No,  she  does  not  doubt  me  !  on  a  dewy  eve-tide 

Whispering  together  beneath  the  listening  moon, 
I  pray'd  till  her  cheek  flush'd,  implored  till  she  faltered— 

Fluttered  to  my  bosom — ah !  to  fly  away  so  soon  ! 

"  When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the  laughing  mirror, 
Tying  up  her  laces,  looping  up  her  hair, 
6 


on  Poems :  1851 

Often  she  thinks — were  this  wild  thing  wedded, 
I  should  have  more  love,  and  much  less  care. 

When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the  bashful  mirror, 
Loosening  her  laces,  combing  down  her  curls, 

Often  she  thinks — were  this  wild  thing  wedded, 
I  should  lose  but  one  for  so  many  boys  and  girls. 

"  Clambering  roses  peep  into  her  chamber, 

Jasmine  and  woodbine,  breathe  sweet,  sweet, 
White-necked  swallows  twittering  of  summer, 

Fill  her  with  balm  and  nested  peace  from  head  to  feet. 
Ah !  will  the  rose-bough  see  her  lying  lonely, 

When  the  petals  fall  and  fierce  bloom  is  on  the  leaves  ? 
Will  the  Autumn  garners  see  her  still  ungathered, 

When  the  fickle  swallows  forsake  the  weeping  eaves  ? 

"  Comes  a  sudden  question — should  a  strange  hand  pluck 

her! 

Oh  !  what  an  anguish  smites  me  at  the  thought, 
Should  some  idle  lordling  bribe  her  mind  with  jewels ! — 

Can  such  beauty  ever  thus  be  bought  ? 
Sometimes  the  huntsmen  prancing  down  the  valley 

Eye  the  village  lasses,  full  of  sprightly  mirth ; 
They  see  as  I  see,  mine  is  the  fairest ! 
Would  she  were  older  and  could  read  my  worth  ! 

"  Are  there  not  sweet  maidens  if  she  still  deny  me  ? 

Show  the  bridal  Heavens  but  one  bright  star  ? 
Wherefore  thus  then  do  I  chase  a  shadow, 

Clattering  one  note  like  a  brown  eve-jar  ? 
So  I  rhyme  and  reason  till  she  darts  before  me — 

Thro'  the  milky  meadows  from  flower  to  flower  she 

flies, 

Sunning  her  sweet  palms  to  shade  her  dazzled  eyelids 
From  the  golden  love  that  looks  too  eager  in  her  eyes. 

7 


William  Michael  Rossetti 


"  When  at  dawn  she  wakens,  and  her  fair  face  gazes 

Out  on  the  weather  thro'  the  window  panes, 
Beauteous  she  looks  !  like  a  white  water-lily 

Bursting  out  of  bud  on  the  rippled  river  plains. 
When  from  bed  she  rises  clothed  from  neck  to  ankle 

In  her  long  nightgown,  sweet  as  boughs  of  May, 
Beauteous  she  looks  !  like  a  tall  garden  lily 

Pure  from  the  night  and  perfect  for  the  day  ! 

"  Happy,  happy  time,  when  the  grey  star  twinkles 

Over  the  fields  all  fresh  with  bloomy  dew ; 
When    the    cold-cheek'd    dawn    grows    ruddy    up    the 

twilight, 

And  the  gold  sun  wakes,  and  weds  her  in  the  blue. 
Then  when  my  darling  tempts  the  early  breezes, 
She  the  only  star  that  dies  not  with  the  dark ! 
Powerless  to  speak  all  the  ardour  of  my  passion 
I  catch  her  little  hand  as  we  listen  to  the  lark. 

"  Shall  the  birds  in  vain  then  valentine  their  sweethearts  ? 

Season  after  season  tell  a  fruitless  tale ; 
Will  not  the  virgin  listen  to  their  voices  ? 

Take  the  honey'd  meaning,  wear  the  bridal  veil. 
Fears  she  frosts  of  winter,  fears  she  the  bare  branches? 

Waits  she  the  garlands  of  spring  for  her  dower  ? 
Is  she  a  nightingale  that  will  not  be  nested 

Till  the  April  woodland  has  built  her  bridal  bower  ? 

"  Then  come  merry  April  with  all  thy  birds  and  beauties  ! 

With  thy  crescent  brows  and  thy  flowery,  showery  glee ; 
With  thy  budding  leafage  and  fresh  green  pastures  ; 
And  may  thy  lustrous  crescent  grow  a  honeymoon  for 
me  ! 


on  Poems  :  1851 

Come  merry  month  of  the  cuckoo  and  the  violet ! 

Come  weeping  Loveliness  in  all  thy  blue  delight ! 
Lo  !  the  nest  is  ready,  let  me  not  languish  longer  ! 

Bring  her  to  my  arms  on  the  first  May  night." 

Surely,  it  may  be  said,  there  is  passion  enough 
here,  and  of  a  sufficiently  personal  kind.  True, 
indeed  :  this  is  not  a  devotion  which  sins  through 
lukewarmth,  and  roams  uncertain  of  an  object.  It 
will  not  fail  to  obtain  an  answer,  through  dubious- 
ness of  quest :  and  if  it  shocks  at  all,  it  shocks  the 
delicacy,  not  the  amour-propre.  But  its  characteristics 
are,  in  fact,  the  same  as  those  at  which  exception 
was  taken  in  the  case  of  Keats.  The  flame  burns 
here,  which  there  only  played,  darting  its  thin,  quick 
tongue  from  point  to  point :  but  the  difference  is  of 
concentration  only.  The  impressionable  is  changed 
for  the  strongly  impressed  — the  influence  being 
similar.  Here  again  the  love,  like  our  poet's  love  of 
nature,  has  the  distinct  tone  of  affection.  It  is  purely 
and  unaffectedly  sensuous,  and  in  its  utterance  as 
genuine  a  thing  as  can  be.  We  hear  a  clear  voice  of 
nature,  with  no  falsetto  notes  at  all ;  as  spontaneous 
and  intelligible  as  the  wooing  of  a  bird,  and  equally 
a  matter  of  course. 

The  main  quality  of  Mr.  Meredith's  poems  is 
warmth — warmth  of  emotion,  and,  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent, of  imagination,  like  the  rich  mantling  blush  on 
a  beautiful  face,  or  a  breath  glowing  upon  your 
cheek.  That  he  is  young  will  be  as  unmistakably 
apparent  to  the  reader  as  to  ourself ;  on  which  score 
various  shortcomings  and  crudities,  not  less  than 

9 


William  Michael  Rossetti 


some  excess  of  this  attribute,  claim  indulgence.  The 
"Rape  of  Aurora,"  for  example,  is  certainly  too 
highly  coloured  ;  "  Daphne  "  objectionably  spun  out, 
even  if  but  in  regard  to  length  ;  and  "  Angelic  Love  " 
other  than  angelic.  The  following,  against  which 
this  plea  cannot  be  urged,  is  a  graceful  and  fitting 
companion  to  "  Love  in  the  Valley." 

SONG. 

"  Under  boughs  of  breathing  May, 
In  the  mild  spring  time  I  lay, 
Lonely,  for  I  had  no  love ; 

And  the  sweet  birds  all  sang  for  pity, 
Cuckoo,  lark,  and  dove. 

"  Tell  me,  cuckoo,  then  I  cried, 
Dare  I  woo  and  wed  a  bride  ? 
I,  like  thee,  have  no  home  nest ; 

And  the  twin  notes  thus  tuned  their  ditty, — 
*  Love  can  answer  best.' 

"  Nor  warm  dove  with  tender  coo, 
Have  I  thy  soft  voice  to  woo, 
Even  were  a  damsel  by ; 

And  the  deep  woodland  croon'd  its  ditty, — 
c  Love  her  first  and  try.' 

"  Nor  have  I,  wild  lark,  thy  wing, 
That  from  bluest  heaven  can  bring 
Bliss,  whatever  fate  befall ; 

And  the  sky  lyrist  trill'd  this  ditty, — 
1  Love  will  give  thee  all.' 
10 


on  Poems:  1851 

"  So  it  chanced  while  June  was  young, 
Wooing  well  with  fervent  song, 
I  had  won  a  damsel  coy ; 

And  the  sweet  birds  that  sang  for  pity, 
Jubileed  for  joy." 

Our  last  quotation  displays  Mr.  Meredith  in  one 
of  his  more  exclusively  descriptive  pieces.  But  we 
may  observe  that,  here  too,  the  emotion  is  what 
most  distinctly  impresses  itself,  while  the  description 
proper,  though  not  wanting  in  precision  and  minute- 
ness, looms  somewhat  faintly. 

SONG. 

"  The  daisy  now  is  out  upon  the  green ; 
And  in  the  grassy  lanes 
The  child  of  April  rains, 
The  sweet  fresh-hearted  violet  is  smelt  and  lov'd  unseen. 

"  Along  the  brooks  and  meads,  the  daffodil 
Its  yellow  richness  spreads, 
And  by  the  fountain  heads 
Of  rivers,  cowslips  cluster  round,  and  over  every  hill. 

"  The  crocus  and  the  primrose  may  have  gone, 
The  snowdrop  may  be  low, 
But  soon  the  purple  glow 
Of  hyacinths  will  fill  the  copse,  and  lilies  watch  the  dawn. 

"  And  in  the  sweetness  of  the  budding  year, 
The  cuckoo's  woodland  call, 
The  skylark  over  all, 

And  then  at  eve,  the  nightingale  is  doubly  sweet  and  dear. 

II 


William  Michael  Rossetti 


"  My  soul  is  singing  with  the  happy  birds, 
And  all  my  human  powers 
Are  blooming  with  the  flowers, 

My  foot  is  on  the  fields  and  downs,  among  the  flocks  and 
herds. 

"  Deep  in  the  forest  where  the  foliage  droops, 
I  wander,  fill'd  with  joy ! 
Again  as  when  a  boy, 
The  sunny  vistas  tempt  me  on  with  dim  delicious  hopes. 

"The  sunny  vistas,  dim  with  hanging  shade, 
And  old  romantic  haze  : — 
Again  as  in  past  days, 
The  Spirit  of  immortal  spring  doth  every  sense  pervade. 

"  Oh !  do  not  say  that  this  will  ever  cease ; — 
This  joy  of  woods  and  fields, 
This  youth  that  nature  yields, 

Will  never  speak  to  me  in  vain,  tho'  soundly  rapt  in 
peace." 

We  have  assigned  Mr.  Meredith  to  the  Keatsian 
school,  believing  that  he  pertains  to  it  in  virtue  of 
the  more  intrinsic  qualities  of  his  mind,  and  of  a 
simple  enjoying  nature  ;  and  as  being  beyond  doubt 
of  the  perceptive  class  in  poetry.  In  mere  style, 
however,  he  attaches  himself  rather  to  the  poets  of 
the  day:  the  pieces  in  which  a  particular  bias  is 
most  evident  being  in  a  Tennysonian  mould — as  the 
"  Olive  Branch,"  and  the  "  Shipwreck  of  Idomeneus," 
—while  some  of  his  smaller  lyrics  smack  of  Herrick. 
He  has  a  good  ear  for  melody,  and  considerable  com- 
mand of  rhythm  ;  but  he  seems  sometimes  to  hanker 

12 


on  Poems:  1861 


unduly  after  novelty  of  metre,  attaining  it,  if  there  be 
no  other  means  to  his  hand,  by  some  change  in 
length  or  interruption  of  rhyme  which  has  a  dragging 
and  inconsequent  effect.  That  his  volume  is  young 
is  not  its  fault ;  nor  are  we  by  any  means  sure  that 
it  is  its  misfortune.  Some  jingle-pieces  there  are,  in- 
deed,— mere  commonplace  and  current  convention, 
which  mature  judgment  would  exclude  :  but  the  best 
are  those  whose  spirit  is  the  spirit  of  youth,  and 
which  are  the  fullest  of  it.  We  do  not  expect  ever 
quite  to  enrol  Mr.  Meredith  among  the  demigods  or 
heroes ;  and  we  hesitate,  for  the  reason  just  given, 
to  say  that  we  count  on  greater  things  from  him  ; 
but  we  shall  not  cease  to  look  for  his  renewed 
appearance  with  hope,  and  to  hail  it  with  extreme 
pleasure,  so  long  as  he  may  continue  to  produce 
poems  equal  to  the  best  in  this  first  volume. 


II 

CHARLES  KINGSLEY 

ON 

POEMS:  1851 

[This  notice  occurs  in  an  article  entitled  "  This  Year's  Song-Crop," 
which  appeared  in  Eraser's  Magazine  for  Town  and  Country,  vol.  xliv., 
No.  cclxiv.,  pp.  618-632,  December,  1851.  Mrs.  Browning's  "Casa 
Guidi  Windows,"  "The  Poems,  Posthumous  and  Collected,  of  Thomas 
Lovell  Beddoes,"  W.  C.  Roscoe's  "Violenzia,"  and  "Poetry,  Sacred 
and  Profane,"  by  John  Wright,  were  also  reviewed  in  this  article.  The 
following  extract  comes  between  the  section  dealing  with  Beddoes's 
poems  and  that  in  which  Kingsley  invites  his  readers  to  laugh  with 
him  over  Mr.  Wright's  book.] 

QUITE  antipodal  to  the  poems  of  Mr.  Beddoes,  and 
yet,  in  our  eyes,  fresh  proofs  of  the  truth  of  those 
rules  which  we  have  tried  to  sketch,  are  the  poems 
of  Mr.  George  Meredith.  This,  we  understand,  is  his 
first  appearance  in  print ;  if  it  be  so,  there  is  very 
high  promise  in  the  unambitious  little  volume  which 
he  has  sent  forth  as  his  first-fruits.  It  is  something,  to 
have  written  already  some  of  the  most  delicious  little 
love-poems  which  we  have  seen  born  in  England  in 
the  last  few  years,  reminding  us  by  their  richness 
and  quaintness  of  tone  of  Herrick  ;  yet  with  a  depth 
of  thought  and  feeling  which  Herrick  never  reached. 
Health  and  sweetness  are  two  qualities  which  run 


Charles  Kingsley  on  Poems  :  1851 

through  all  these  poems.  They  are  often  overloaded 
— often  somewhat  clumsy  and  ill-expressed — often 
wanting  polish  and  finish  ;  but  they  are  all  genuine, 
all  melodiously  conceived,  if  not  always  melodiously 
executed.  One  often  wishes,  in  reading  the  volume, 
that  Mr.  Meredith  had  been  thinking  now  and  the"n 
of  Moore  instead  of  Keats,  and  had  kept  for  revision 
a  great  deal  which  he  has  published ;  yet  now  and 
then  form,  as  well  as  matter,  is  nearly  perfect.  For 
instance : — 

SONG. 

"  The  moon  is  alone  in  the  sky 

As  thou  in  my  soul, 
The  sea  takes  her  image  to  lie 
Where  the  white  ripples  roll 
All  night  in  a  dream, 
With  the  light  of  her  beam, 
Hushedly,  mournfully,  mistily  up  to  the  shore, 
The  pebbles  speak  low, 
In  the  ebb  and  the  flow, 

As  I,  when  thy  voice  came  at  intervals,  turned  to  adore  : 
Nought  other  is  heard, 
Save  thy  heart  like  a  bird, 
Beating  to  bliss  that  is  past  evermore,  evermore." 

SONG. 

"  I  cannot  lose  thee  for  a  day, 

But  like  a  bird  with  restless  wing, 
My  heart  will  find  thee  far  away, 
And  on  thy  bosom  fall  and  sing, 
My  nest  is  here,  my  rest  is  here ; 
15 


Charles  Kingsley 


And  in  the  lull  of  wind  and  rain, 
Fresh  voices  make  a  sweet  refrain, — 
'  His  rest  is  there,  his  nest  is  there.' 

"  With  thee  the  wind  and  sky  are  fair, 

But  parted,  both  are  strange  and  dark ; 
And  treacherous  the  quiet  air 

That  holds  me,  singing  like  a  lark, 

O  shield  my  love,  strong  arm  above  ! 
'Till  in  the  hush  of  wind  and  rain, 
Fresh  voices  make  a  rich  refrain, — 

'  The  arm  above  will  shield  thy  love  ! '  " 

In  Mr.  Meredith's  Pastorals,  too,  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  sweet  wholesome  writing,  more  like  real 
pastorals  than  those  of  any  young  poet  whom  we 
have  had  for  many  a  year.  Let  these  suffice  as 
specimens : — 

"...  See,  on  the  river  the  slow-rippled  surface 
Shining;   the  slow  ripple  broadens  in  circles;  the  bright 

surface  smoothens ; 

Now  it  is  flat  as  the  leaves  of  the  yet  unseen  water-lily. 
There  dart  the  lives  of  a  day,  ever  varying  tactics  fantastic, 
There,  by  the  wet-mirror'd  osiers,  the  emerald  wing  of  the 

kingfisher 
Flashes,  the  fish  in  his  beak  !  there  the  dab-chick  dived,  and 

the  motion 

Lazily  undulates  all  thro'  the  tall  standing  army  of  rushes. 
O  joy  thus  to  revel  all   day,  till  the  twilight  turns  us 

homeward ! 
Till  all  the  lingering,  deep-blooming  splendour  of  sunset 

is  over, 

16 


on  Poems  :  1851 

And  the  one  star  shines  mildly  in  mellowing  hues,  like  a 

spirit 
Sent  to  assure  us  that  light  never  dieth,  tho'  day  is  now 

buried." 

Careless  as  hexameters  ;  but  honest  landscape- 
painting  ;  and  only  he  who  begins  honestly  ends 
greatly. 

LOVE  IN  THE  VALLEY. 

"  Under  yonder  beech-tree  standing  on  the  green  sward, 

Couch'd  with  her  arms  behind  her  little  head, 
Her  knees  folded  up,  and  her  tresses  on  her  bosom, 

Lies  my  young  love  sleeping  in  the  shade. 
Had  I  the  heart  to  slide  one  arm  beneath  her ! 

Press  her  dreaming  lips  as  her  waist  I  folded  slow, 
Waking  on  the  instant  she  could  not  but  embrace  me — 

Ah !  would  she  hold  me,  and  never  let  me  go  ? 

"  Shy  as  the  squirrel,  and  wayward  as  the  swallow ; 

Swift  as  the  swallow  when  athwart  the  western  flood 
Circleting  the  surface  he  meets  his  mirror'd  winglets, — 

Is  that  dear  one  in  her  maiden  bud. 
Shy  as  the  squirrel  whose  nest  is  in  the  pine  tops ; 

Gentle — ah  !  that  she  were  jealous  as  the  dove  ! 
Full  of  all  the  wildness  of  the  woodland  creatures, 

Happy  in  herself  is  the  maiden  that  I  love  I 

"  When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the  laughing  mirror, 

Tying  up  her  laces,  looping  up  her  hair, 
Often  she  thinks — were  this  wild  thing  wedded, 
I  should  have  more  love,  and  much  less  care. 
When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the  bashful  mirror, 

Loosening  her  laces,  combing  down  her  curls, 
Often  she  thinks — were  this  wild  thing  wedded, 
I  should  lose  but  one  for  so  many  boys  and  girls." 
17  c 


Charles  Kingsley 


What  gives  us  here  hope  for  the  future,  as  well  as 
enjoyment  on  the  spot,  is,  that  these  have  evidently 
not  been  put  together,  but  have  grown  of  themselves  ; 
and  the  one  idea  has  risen  before  his  mind,  and 
shaped  itself  into  a  song ;  not  perfect  in  form, 
perhaps,  but  as  far  as  it  goes,  healthful,  and  con- 
sistent, and  living,  through  every  branch  and  spray 
of  detail.  And  this  is  the  reason  why  Mr.  Meredith 
has  so  soon  acquired  an  instinctive  melody,  which 
Mr.  Beddoes,  as  we  saw,  never  could.  To  such  a 
man,  any  light  which  he  can  gain  from  aesthetic 
science  will  be  altogether  useful.  The  living  seed 
of  a  poem  being  in  him,  and  certain  to  grow  and 
develop  somehow,  the  whole  gardener's  art  may  be 
successfully  brought  to  bear  on  perfecting  it.  For 
this  is  the  use  of  aesthetic  science — to  supply,  not  the 
bricklayer's  trowel,  but  the  hoe,  which  increases  the 
fertility  of  the  soil,  and  the  pruning-knife,  which 
lops  off  excrescences.  For  Mr.  Meredith — with  real 
kindness  we  say  it,  for  the  sake  of  those  love-poems 
— has  much  to  learn,  and,  as  it  seems  to  us,  a  spirit 
which  can  learn  it ;  but  still  it  must  be  learnt.  One 
charming  poem — for  instance,  "Daphne" — is  all 
spoilt,  for  want  of  that  same  pruning-knife.  We  put 
aside  the  question  whether  a  ballad  form  is  suitable, 
not  to  the  subject — for  to  that,  as  a  case  of  purely 
objective  action,  it  is  suitable, — but  to  his  half- 
Elegiac,  thoughtful  handling  of  it.  Yet  we  recom- 
mend him  to  consider  whether  his  way  of  looking  at 
the  Apollo  and  Daphne  myth  be  not  so  far  identical 
with  Mr.  Tennyson's  idea  of  "  Paris  and  CEnone,"  as 

18 


on  Poems:  1851 

to  require  a  similar  Idyllic  form,  to  give  the  thoughtful 
element  its  fair  weight.  If  you  treat  external  action 
merely  (and  in  as  far  as  you  do  so,  you  will  really 
reproduce  those  old  sensuous  myths)  you  may  keep 
the  ballad  form,  and  heap  verse  on  verse  as  rapidly 
as  you  will ;  but  if  you  introduce  any  subjective 
thought,  after  the  fashion  of  the  Roman  and  later 
Greek  writers,  to  explain  the  myth,  and  give  it  a 
spiritual,  or  even  merely  allegoric  meaning,  you  must, 
as  they  did,  slacken  the  pace  of  your  verse.  Let 
Ovid's  Fasti  and  Epistles  be  your  examples,  at  least 
in  form,  and  write  slowly  enough  to  allow  the  reader 
to  think  as  he  goes  on.  The  neglect  of  this  rule 
spoilt  the  two  best  poems  in  Reverberations, 
"Balder,"  and  "Thor,"  which,  whatever  were  the 
faults  of  the  rest  of  the  book,  were  true  and  noble 
poems;  and  the  neglect  of  it  spoils  "Apollo  and 
Daphne."  Mr.  Meredith  is  trying  all  through  to 
mean  more  than  the  form  which  he  has  chosen  allows 
him.  That  form  gives  free  scope  to  a  prodigality  of 
objective  description,  of  which  Keats  need  not  have 
been  ashamed ;  but  if  he  had  more  carefully  studied 
the  old  models  of  that  form — from  the  simple  Scotch 
ballads  to  Shakspeare's  "Venus  and  Adonis" — a 
ballad  and  not  an  idyl, — he  would  have  avoided  Keats' 
fault  of  too-muchness,  into  which  he  has  fallen.  Half 
the  poem  would  bear  cutting  out ;  even  half  of  those 
most  fresh  and  living  stanzas,  where  the  whole  wood- 
land springs  into  life  to  stop  Daphne's  flight — where 

"  Running  ivies,  dark  and  lingering, 
Round  her  light  limbs  drag  and  twine ; 

19 


Charles  Kingsley 


Round  her  waist,  with  languorous  tendrils 
Reels  and  wreathes  the  juicy  vine, 
Crowning  her  with  amorous  clusters ; 
Pouring  down  her  sloping  back 
Fresh-born  wines  in  glittering  rillets, 
Following  her  in  crimson  track." 

Every  stanza  is  a  picture  in  itself,  but  there  are 
too  many  of  them  ;  and  therefore  we  lose  the  story  in 
the  profusion  of  its  accidentals.  There  is  a  truly 
Correggiesque  tone  of  feeling  and  drawing  all  through 
this  poem,  which  is  very  pleasant  to  us.  But  we 
pray  Mr.  Meredith  to  go  to  the  National  Gallery, 
and  there  look  steadily  and  long,  with  all  the  analytic 
insight  he  can,  at  the  "  Venus  and  Mercury,"  or  the 
"  Agony  in  the  Garden ; "  or  go  to  the  Egyptian 
Hall,  and  there  feast,  not  only  his  eyes  and  heart, 
but  his  intellect  and  spirit  also,  with  Lord  Ward's 
duplicate  of  the  "  Magdalen  " — the  grandest  Pro- 
testant sermon  on  "free  justification  by  faith"  ever 
yet  preached  ;  and  there  see  how  Correggio  can  dare 
to  indulge  in  his  exquisite  lusciousness  of  form, 
colour,  and  chiaro-'scuro,  without  his  pictures  ever 
becoming  tawdry  or  overwrought — namely,  by  the 
severe  scientific  unity  and  harmonious  gradation  of 
parts  which  he  so  carefully  preserves,  which  make 
his  pictures  single  glorious  rainbows  of  precious 
stone — that  Magdalen  one  living  emerald — instead  of 
being,  like  the  jewelled  hawk  in  the  Great  Exhi- 
bition, every  separate  atom  of  it  beautiful,  yet  as 
a  whole  utterly  hideous. 

One  or  two  more  little  quarrels  we  have  with  Mr. 
20 


on  Poems :  1851 

Meredith, — and  yet  they  are  but  amantium  ir<z>  after 
all.  First,  concerning  certain  Keatist  words — such 
as  languorous,  and  innumerous,  and  such  like,  which 
are  very  melodious,  but  do  not,  unfortunately,  belong 
to  this  our  English  tongue,  their  places  being  occu- 
pied already  by  old  and  established  words  ;  as  Mr. 
Tennyson  has  conquered  this  fault  in  himself,  Mr. 
Meredith  must  do  the  same.  Next,  concerning 
certain  ambitious  metres,  sound  and  sweet,  but  not 
thoroughly  worked  out,  as  they  should  have  been. 
Mr.  Meredith  must  always  keep  in  mind  that  the 
species  of  poetry  which  he  has  chosen  is  one  which 
admits  of  nothing  less  than  perfection.  We  may 
excuse  the  roughness  of  Mrs.  Browning's  utterance, 
for  the  sake  of  the  grandeur  and  earnestness  of  her 
purpose ;  she  may  be  reasonably  supposed  to  have 
been  more  engrossed  with  the  matter  than  with  the 
manner.  But  it  is  not  so  with  the  idyllist  and  lyrist. 
He  is  not  driven  to  speak  by  a  prophetic  impulse ; 
he  sings  of  pure  will,  and  therefore  he  must  sing 
perfectly,  and  take  a  hint  from  that  microcosm,  the 
hunting-field ;  wherein  if  the  hounds  are  running 
hard,  it  is  no  shame  to  any  man  to  smash  a  gate 
instead  of  clearing  it,  and  jump  into  a  brook  instead 
of  over  it.  Forward  he  must  get,  by  fair  means  if 
possible,  if  not,  by  foul.  But  if,  like  the  idyllist,  any 
gentleman  "  larks "  his  horse  over  supererogatory 
leaps  at  the  coverside,  he  is  not  allowed  to  knock  all 
four  hoofs  against  the  top  bar ;  but  public  opinion 
(who,  donkey  as  she  is,  is  a  very  shrewd  old  donkey, 
nevertheless,  and  clearly  understands  the  difference 

21 


Charles  Kingsley  on  Poems:  1851 

between  thistles  and  barley)  requires  him  to  "  come 
up  in  good  form,  measure  his  distance  exactly,  take 
off  neatly,  clear  it  cleverly,  and  come  well  into  the  next 
field"  .  .  .  And  even  so  should  idyllists  with  their 
metres. 


22 


THE   SHAVING  OF   SHAGPAT 


Ill 

GEORGE  ELIOT 

ON 

THE  SHAVING  OF  SHAGPAT 

[From  The  Leader,  vol.  vii.,  no.  302,  January  5,  1856,  pp.  15-17.] 

No  art  of  religious  symbolism  has  a  deeper  root  in 
nature  than  that  of  turning  with  reverence  towards 
the  East.  For  almost  all  our  good  things — our  most 
precious  vegetables,  our  noblest  animals,  our  loveliest 
flowers,  our  arts,  our  religious  and  philosophical  ideas, 
our  very  nursery  tales  and  romances,  have  travelled 
to  us  from  the  East.  In  an  historical  as  well  as  in  a 
physical  sense,  the  East  is  the  Land  of  the  Morning. 
Perhaps  the  simple  reason  of  this  may  be,  that  when 
the  Earth  first  began  to  move  on  her  axis  her  Asiatic 
side  was  towards  the  sun — her  Eastern  cheek  first 
blushed  under  his  rays.  And  so  this  priority  of  sun- 
shine, like  the  first  move  in  chess,  gave  the  East  the 
precedence,  though  not  the  pre-eminence,  in  all 
things ;  just  as  the  garden  slope  that  fronts  the 
morning  sun  yields  the  earliest  seedlings,  though 
those  seedlings  may  attain  a  hardier  and  more 

25 


George  Eliot 

luxuriant  growth  by  being  transplanted.  But  we 
leave  this  question  to  wiser  heads — 

"  Felix  qui  potuit  rerum  cognoscere  causas." 

(Excuse  the  novelty  of  the  quotation.)  We  have  not 
carried  our  reader's  thoughts  to  the  East  that  we  may 
discuss  the  reason  why  we  owe  it  so  many  good  things, 
but  that  we  may  introduce  him  to  a  new  pleasure, 
due,  at  least  indirectly,  to  that  elder  region  of  the 
earth.  We  mean  "  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat,"  which 
is  indeed  an  original  fiction  just  produced  in  this 
western  island,  but  which  is  so  intensely  Oriental 
in  its  conception  and  execution,  that  the  author  has 
done  wisely  to  guard  against  the  supposition  of  its 
being  a  translation,  by  prefixing  the  statement  that 
it  is  derived  from  no  Eastern  source,  but  is  altogether 
his  own. 

"  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat "  is  a  work  of  genius, 
and  of  poetical  genius.  It  has  none  of  the  tameness 
which  belongs  to  mere  imitations  manufactured  with 
servile  effort,  or  thrown  off  with  simious  facility.  It 
is  no  patchwork  of  borrowed  incidents.  Mr.  Meredith 
has  not  simply  imitated  Arabian  fictions,  he  has  been 
inspired  by  them  ;  he  has  used  Oriental  forms,  but 
only  as  an  Oriental  genius  would  have  used  them 
who  had  been  "  to  the  manner  born."  Goethe,  when 
he  wrote  an  immortal  work  under  the  inspiration  of 
Oriental  studies,  very  properly  called  it  "West- 
ostliche  " — West-eastern — because  it  was  thoroughly 
Western  in  spirit,  though  Eastern  in  its  forms.  But 
this  double  epithet  would  not  give  a  true  idea  of 

26 


on  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat 

Mr.  Meredith's  work,  for  we  do  not  remember  that 
throughout  our  reading  we  were  once  struck  by  an 
incongruity  between  the  thought  and  the  form,  once 
startled  by  the  intrusion  of  the  chill  north  into  the 
land  of  the  desert  and  the  palm.  Perhaps  more 
lynx-eyed  critics,  and  more  learned  Orientalists,  than 
we,  may  detect  discrepancies  to  which  we  are  blind, 
but  our  experience  will  at  least  indicate  what  is 
likely  to  be  the  average  impression.  In  one  particular, 
indeed,  Mr.  Meredith  differs  widely  from  his  models, 
but  that  difference  is  a  high  merit:  it  lies  in  the 
exquisite  delicacy  of  his  love  incidents  and  love 
scenes.  In  every  other  characteristic — in  exuberance 
of  imagery,  in  picturesque  wildness  of  incident,  in  sig- 
nificant humour,  in  aphoristic  wisdom,  "  The  Shaving 
of  Shagpat "  is  a  new  Arabian  Night.  To  two-thirds 
of  the  reading  world  this  is  sufficient  recommendation. 
According  to  Oriental  custom  the  main  story  of 
the  book — The  Shaving  of  Shagpat — forms  the 
setting  to  several  minor  tales,  which  are  told,  on 
pretexts  more  or  less  plausible,  by  the  various 
dramatis  persona.  We  will  not  forestall  the  reader's 
pleasure  by  telling  him  who  Shagpat  was,  or  what 
were  the  wondrous  adventures  through  which  Shibli 
Bagarag,  the  wandering  barber,  became  Master  of 
the  Event  and  the  destroyer  of  illusions,  by  shaving 
from  Shagpat  the  mysterious  identical  which  had 
held  men  in  subjection  to  him.  There  is  plenty  of 
deep  meaning  in  the  tale  for  those  who  cannot  be 
satisfied  without  deep  meanings,  but  there  is  no 
didactic  thrusting  forward  of  moral  lessons,  and  our 

27 


George  Eliot 

imagination  is  never  chilled  by  a  sense  of  allegorical 
intention  predominating  over  poetic  creation.  Nothing 
can  be  more  vivid  and  concrete  than  the  narrative 
and  description,  nothing  fresher  and  more  vigorous 
than  the  imagery.  Are  we  reading  how  horsemen 
pursued  their  journey?  We  are  told  that  they 
"flourished  their  lances  with  cries,  and  jerked  their 
heels  into  the  flanks  of  their  steeds,  and  stretched 
forward  till  their  beards  were  mixed  with  the  tossing 
manes,  and  the  dust  rose  after  them  crimson  in  the 
sun."  Is  it  a  maiden's  eyes  we  are  to  see?  They 
are  "dark,  under  a  low  arch  of  darker  lashes,  like 
stars  on  the  skirts  of  storm."  Sometimes  the  images 
are  exquisitely  poetical,  as  when  Bhanavar  looks 
forth  "on  the  stars  that  were  above  the  purple 
heights  and  the  blushes  of  inner  heaven  that  streamed 
up  the  sky;"  sometimes  ingenious  and  pithy;  for 
example,  "she  clenched  her  hands  an  instant  with 
that  feeling  which  knocketh  a  nail  in  the  coffin  of 
a  desire  not  dead."  Indeed,  one  of  the  rarest  charms 
of  the  book  is  the  constant  alternation  of  passion  and 
wild  imaginativeness  with  humour  and  pithy,  practical 
sense.  Mr.  Meredith  is  very  happy  in  his  imitation 
of  the  lyrical  fragments  which  the  Eastern  tale-tellers 
weave  into  their  narrative,  either  for  the  sake  of  giving 
emphasis  to  their  sententiousness,  or  for  the  sake  of 
giving  a  more  intense  utterance  to  passion,  a  loftier 
tone  to  description.  We  will  quote  a  specimen  of 
the  latter  kind  from  the  story  of  "Bhanavar  the 
Beautiful."  This  story  is  the  brightest  gem  among 
the  minor  tales,  and  perhaps  in  the  whole  book.  It 

28 


on  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat 

is  admirably  constructed  and  thoroughly  poetic  in 
its  outline  and  texture. 

"  Bhanavar  gazed  on  her  beloved,  and  the  bridal  dew 
overflowed  her  underlids,  and  she  loosed  her  hair  to  let  it 
flow,  part  over  her  shoulders,  part  over  his,  and  in  sighs 
that  were  the  measure  of  music  she  sang — 

"  '  I  thought  not  to  love  again  ! 

But  now  I  love  as  I  loved  not  before ; 
I  love  not :  I  adore ! 

O  my  beloved,  kiss,  kiss  me  !  waste  thy  kisses  like  a  rain. 
Are  not  thy  red  lips  fain  ? 
Oh,  and  so  softly  they  greet ! 
Am  I  not  sweet  ? 
Sweet  must  I  be  for  thee,  or  sweet  in  vain  : 

Sweet  to  thee  only,  my  dear  love  ! 
The  lamps  and  censers  sink,  but  cannot  cheat 
Those  eyes  of  thine  that  shoot  above, 
Trembling  lustres  of  the  dove  ! 
A  darkness  drowns  all  lustres  :  still  I  see 

Thee,  my  love,  thee  ! 

Thee,  my  glory  of  gold,  from  head  to  feet  I 
Oh,  how  the  lids  of  the  world  close  quite  when  our  lips 
meet ! ' 

"  Almeryl  strained  her  to  him,  and  responded  : — 

"  '  My  life  was  midnight  on  the  mountain  side ; 

Cold  stars  were  on  the  heights : 
There,  in  my  darkness,  I  had  lived  and  died, 

Content  with  little  lights. 
Sudden  I  saw  the  heavens  flush  with  a  beam, 

And  I  ascended  soon, 
And  evermore  over  mankind  supreme 
Stood  silver  in  the  moon.' 
29 


George  Eliot 

"  And  he  fell  playfully  into  a  new  metre,  singing : — 

"  '  Who  will  paint  my  beloved 

In  musical  word  or  colour  ? 
Earth  with  an  envy  is  moved : 

Sea-shells  and  roses  she  brings, 

Gems  from  the  green  ocean-springs, 

Fruits  with  the  fairy  bloom-dews, 

Feathers  of  Paradise  hues, 

Waters  with  jewel-bright  falls, 

Ore  from  the  Genii-halls  : 
All  in  their  splendour  approved ; 
All ;  but,  match'd  with  my  beloved, 

Darker,  denser,  and  duller.' 

"  Then  she  kissed  him  for  that  song,  and  sang  : — 

" '  Once  to  be  beautiful  was  my  pride, 

And  I  blush'd  in  love  with  my  own  bright  brow. 
Once,  when  a  wooer  was  by  my  side, 

I  worship'd  the  object  that  had  his  vow  : 
Different,  different,  different  now, 

Different  now  is  my  beauty  to  me  : 
Different,  different,  different  now  ! 

For  I  prize  it  alone  because  prized  by  thee.' 

"  Almeryl  stretched  his  arm  to  the  lattice,  and  drew  it 
open,  letting  in  the  soft  night  wind,  and  the  sound  of  the 
fountain  and  the  bulbul  and  the  beam  of  the  stars,  and 
versed  to  her  in  the  languor  of  deep  love  : — 

" '  Whether  we  die  or  we  live 

Matters  it  now  no  more ; 
Life  has  nought  further  to  give : 
Love  is  its  crown  and  its  core. 
Come  to  us  either,  we're  rife, — 
Death  or  life ! 

30 


on  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat 

" '  Death  can  take  not  away, 

Darkness  and  light  are  the  same  : 
We  are  beyond  the  pale  ray, 

Wrapt  in  a  rosier  flame ; 
Welcome  which  will  to  our  breath, — 
Life  or  death  ! ' " 

An  example  of  Mr.  Meredith's  skill  in  humorous 
apologue  is  the  "Punishment  of  Khipil  the  Builder," 
which  is  short  enough  to  be  quoted  without  much 
mutilation  : — 

"  They  relate  that  Shahpesh,  the  Persian,  commanded 
the  building  of  a  palace,  and  Khipil  was  his  builder.  The 
work  lingered  from  the  first  year  of  the  reign  of  Shahpesh 
even  to  his  fourteenth.  One  day  Shahpesh  went  to  the 
river-side,  where  it  stood,  to  inspect  it.  Khipil  was  sitting 
on  a  marble  slab  among  the  stones  and  blocks ;  round  him 
stretched  lazily  the  masons  and  stonecutters  and  slaves  of 
burden ;  and  they  with  the  curve  of  humorous  enjoyment 
on  their  lips,  for  he  was  reciting  to  them  adventures,  inter- 
spersed with  anecdotes  and  recitations  and  poetic  instances, 
as  was  his  wont.  They  were  like  pleased  flocks  whom  the 
shepherd  hath  led  to  a  pasture  freshened  with  brooks, 
there  to  feed  indolently  ;  he,  the  shepherd,  in  the  midst. 

"  Now  the  King  said  to  him,  '  O  Khipil,  show  me  my 
palace  where  it  standeth,  for  I  desire  to  gratify  my  sight 
with  its  fairness.' 

"  Khipil  abased  himself  before  Shahpesh,  and  answered, 
1  'Tis  even  here,  O  King  of  the  age,  where  thou  delightest 
the  earth  with  thy  foot,  and  the  ear  of  thy  slave  with  sweet- 
ness. Surely  a  site  of  vantage,  one  that  dominateth  earth, 
air,  and  water,  which  is  the  builder's  first  and  chief  requisi- 
tion for  a  noble  palace,  a  palace  to  fill  foreign  kings  and 

31 


George  Eliot 

sultans  with  the  distraction  of  envy  ;  and  it  is,  O  Sovereign 
of  the  time,  a  site,  this  site  I  have  chosen,  to  occupy  the 
tongues  of  travellers  and  awaken  the  flights  of  poets ! ' 

"  Shahpesh  smiled  and  said,  '  The  site  is  good  !  I  laud 
the  site!  Likewise  I  laud  the  wisdom  of  Ebn  Busrac, 
where  he  exclaims  : — 

" '  Be  sure,  where  Virtue  faileth  to  appear, 
For  her  a  gorgeous  mansion  men  will  rear ; 
And  day  and  night  her  praises  will  be  heard, 
Where  never  yet  she  spake  a  single  word.' 

"  Then  said  he,  '  O  Khipil,  my  builder,  there  was  once 
a  farm-servant  that,  having  neglected  in  the  seed-time  to 
sow,  took  to  singing  the  richness  of  his  soil  when  it  was 
harvest,  in  proof  of  which  he  displayed  the  abundance  of 
weeds  that  coloured  the  land  everywhere.  Discover  to  me 
now  the  completeness  of  my  halls  and  apartments,  I  pray 
thee,  O  Khipil,  and  be  the  excellence  of  thy  construction 
made  visible  to  me.' 

"  Quoth  Khipil,  c  To  hear  is  to  obey.' 

"  He  conducted  Shahpesh  among  the  unfinished  saloons 
and  imperfect  courts  and  roofless  rooms,  and  by  half-erected 
obelisks,  and  columns  pierced  and  chipped,  of  the  palace  of 
his  building.  And  he  was  bewildered  at  the  words  spoken 
by  Shahpesh ;  but  now  the  King  exalted  him,  and  admired 
the  perfection  of  his  craft,  the  greatness  of  his  labour,  the 
speediness  of  his  construction,  his  assiduity,  feigning  not  to 
behold  his  negligence. 

"  Presently  they  went  up  winding  balusters  to  a  marble 
terrace,  and  the  King  said,  '  Such  is  thy  devotion  and  con- 
stancy to  toil,  O  Khipil,  that  thou  shalt  walk  before  me 
here.' 

"  He  then  commanded  Khipil  to  precede  him,  and 
Khipil  was  heightened  with  the  honour.  When  Khipil  had 

32 


on  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat 

paraded  a  short  space  he  stopped  quickly,  and  said  to 
Shahpesh,  '  Here  is,  as  it  chanceth,  a  gap,  O  King !  and  we 
can  go  no  further  this  way.' 

"  Shahpesh  said,  '  All  is  perfect,  and  it  is  my  will  thou 
delay  not  to  advance.' 

"  Khipil  cried,  c  The  gap  is  wide,  O  mighty  King,  and 
manifest,  and  it  is  the  one  incomplete  part  of  thy  palace.' 

"  Then  said  Shahpesh,  '  O  Khipil,  I  see  no  distinction 
between  one  part  and  another ;  excellent  are  all  parts  in 
beauty  and  proportion,  and  there  can  be  no  part  incomplete 
in  this  palace  that  occupieth  the  builder  fourteen  years  in 
its  building  :  so  advance,  and  do  my  bidding.' 

"  Khipil  yet  hesitated,  for  the  gap  was  of  many  strides, 
and  at  the  bottom  of  the  gap  was  a  deep  water,  and  he  one 
that  knew  not  the  motion  of  swimming.  But  Shahpesh 
ordered  his  guard  to  point  their  arrows  in  the  direction  of 
Khipil,  and  Khipil  stepped  forth  hurriedly,  and  fell  into 
the  gap,  and  was  swallowed  by  the  water  below.  When  he 
rose  the  third  time  succour  reached  him,  and  he  was  drawn 
to  land  trembling,  his  teeth  chattering. 

"  And  Shahpesh  praised  him,  and  said,  '  This  is  an  apt 
contrivance  for  a  bath,  Khipil,  O  my  builder !  well  con- 
ceived; one  that  taketh  by  surprise;  and  it  shall  be  thy 
reward  daily  when  much  talking  hath  fatigued  thee.' 

"  Then  he  bade  Khipil  lead  him  to  the  hall  of  state. 
And  when  they  were  there  Shahpesh  said,  '  For  a  privilege, 
and  as  a  mark  of  my  approbation,  I  give  thee  permission 
to  sit  in  the  marble  chair  of  yonder  throne,  even  in  my 
presence,  O  Khipil.' 

"  Khipil  said,  '  Surely,  O  King,  the  chair  is  not  yet 
executed.' 

"  And  Shahpesh  exclaimed,  '  If  this  be  so,  thou  art 
but  the  length  of  thy  measure  on  the  ground,  O  talkative 
one !' 

33  D 


George  Eliot 

"  Khipil  said,  '  Nay,  'tis  not  so,  O  King  of  splendours  ! 
blind  that  I  am  !  yonder's  indeed  the  chair.' 

"And  Khipil  feared  the  King,  and  went  to  the  place 
where  the  chair  should  be,  and  bent  his  body  in  a  sitting 
posture,  eyeing  the  King,  and  made  pretence  to  sit  in  the 
chair  of  Shahpesh. 

"  Then  said  Shahpesh,  c  As  a  token  that  I  approve  thy 
execution  of  the  chair,  thou  shall  be  honoured  by  remaining 
seated  in  it  one  day  and  one  night ;  but  move  thou  to  the 
right  or  to  the  left,  showing  thy  soul  insensible  of  the 
honour  done  thee,  transfixed  shalt  thou  be  with  twenty 
arrows  and  five.' 

"  The  King  then  left  him  with  a  guard  of  twenty-five  of 
his  body-guard;  and  they  stood  around  him  with  bent 
bows,  so  that  Khipil  dared  not  move  from  his  sitting 
posture.  And  the  masons  and  the  people  crowded  to  see 
Khipil  sitting  on  his  master's  chair,  for  it  became  rumoured 
about.  When  they  beheld  him  sitting  upon  nothing,  and 
he  trembling  to  stir  for  fear  of  the  loosening  of  the  arrows, 
they  laughed  so  that  they  rolled  upon  the  floor  of  the  hall, 
and  the  echoes  of  laughter  were  a  thousandfold.  Surely 
the  arrows  of  the  guard  swayed  with  the  laughter  that  shook 
them. 

"  Now,  when  the  time  had  expired  for  his  sitting  in  the 
chair,  Shahpesh  returned  to  him,  and  he  was  cramped, 
pitiable  to  see ;  and  Shahpesh  said,  '  Thou  hast  been 
exalted  above  men,  O  Khipil !  for  that  thou  didst  execute 
for  thy  master  has  been  found  fitting  for  thee.' 

"Then  he  bade  Khipil  lead  the  way  to  the  noble 
gardens  of  dalliance  and  pleasure  that  he  had  planted  and 
contrived.  And  Khipil  went  in  that  state  described  by  the 
poet,  when  we  go  draggingly,  with  remonstrating  members — 

" '  Knowing  a  dreadful  strength  behind 
And  a  dark  fate  before.' 

34 


on  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat 

"  They  came  to  the  gardens,  and  behold,  they  were  full 
of  weeds  and  nettles,  the  fountains  dry,  no  tree  to  be  seen 
— a  desert.  And  Shahpesh  cried,  '  This  is  indeed  of 
admirable  design,  O  Khipil !  Feelest  thou  not  the  coolness 
of  the  fountains? — their  refreshingness ?  Truly  I  am 
grateful  to  thee  !  And  these  flowers,  pluck  me  now  a 
handful,  and  tell  me  of  their  perfume.' 

"  Khipil  plucked  a  handful  of  the  nettles  that  were  there 
in  the  place  of  flowers,  and  put  his  nose  to  them  before 
Shahpesh  till  his  nose  was  reddened ;  and  desire  to  rub  it 
waxed  in  him,  and  possessed  him,  and  became  a  passion, 
so  that  he  could  scarce  refrain  from  rubbing  it  even  in  the 
King's  presence.  And  the  King  encouraged  him  to  sniff 
and  enjoy  their  fragrance,  repeating  the  poet's  words — 

" '  Methinks  I  am  a  lover  and  a  child, 
A  little  child  and  happy  lover,  both ! 
When  by  the  breath  of  flowers  I  am  beguiled 
From  sense  of  pain,  and  lull'd  in  odorous  sloth. 
So  I  adore  them,  that  no  mistress  sweet 
Seems  worthier  of  the  love  that  they  awake  : 
In  innocence  and  beauty  more  complete, 
Was  never  maiden  cheek  in  morning  lake. 
Oh,  while  I  live,  surround  me  with  fresh  flowers  ! 
Oh,  when  I  die,  then  bury  me  in  their  bowers ! ' 

"And  the  King  said,  'What  sayest  thou,  O  my  builder? 
that  is  a  fair  quotation,  applicable  to  thy  feelings,  one  that 
expresseth  them  ? ' 

"  Khipil  answered,  c  'Tis  eloquent,  O  great  King  !  Com- 
prehensiveness would  be  its  portion,  but  that  it  alludeth 
not  to  the  delight  of  chafing.' 

"  Then  Shahpesh  laughed,  and  cried, '  Chafe  not !  it  is 
an  ill  thing  and  a  hideous  !  This  nosegay,  O  Khipil,  is  for 

35 


George  Eliot 

thee  to  present  to  thy  mistress.  Truly  she  will  receive 
thee  well  after  its  presentation  !  I  will  have  it  now  sent  in 
thy  name,  with  word  that  thou  followest  quickly.  And  for 
thy  nettled  nose,  surely  if  the  whim  seize  thee  that  thou 
desirest  its  chafing,  to  thy  neighbour  is  permitted  what  to 
thy  hand  is  refused.' 

"  So  the  King  set  a  guard  upon  Khipil  to  see  that  his 
orders  were  executed,  and  appointed  a  time  for  him  to 
return  to  the  gardens. 

"  At  the  hour  indicated  Khipil  stood  before  Shahpesh 
again.  He  was  pale,  saddened ;  his  tongue  drooped  like 
the  tongue  of  a  heavy  bell,  that  when  it  soundeth  giveth 
forth  mournful  sounds  only :  he  had  also  the  look  of  one 
battered  with  many  beatings.  So  the  King  said,  '  How 
of  thy  presentation  of  the  flowers  of  thy  culture,  O 
Khipil?' 

"  He  answered, '  Surely,  O  King,  she  received  me  with 
wrath,  and  I  am  shamed  by  her.' 

"  And  the  King  said,  '  How  of  my  clemency  in  the 
matter  of  the  chafing  ? ' 

"  Khipil  answered,  {  O  King  of  splendours !  I  made 
petition  to  my  neighbours  whom  I  met,  accosting  them 
civilly  and  with  imploring,  for  I  ached  to  chafe,  and  it  was 
the  very  raging  thirst  of  desire  to  chafe  that  was  mine, 
devouring  intensity  of  eagerness  for  solace  of  chafing. 
And  they  chafed  me,  O  King ;  yet  not  in  those  parts  which 
throbbed  for  the  chafing,  but  in  those  which  abhorred  it.' 

"  Then  Shahpesh  smiled  and  said,  '  'Tis  certain  that 
the  magnanimity  of  monarchs  is  as  the  rain  that  falleth, 
the  sun  that  shineth :  and  in  this  spot  it  fertilizeth  richness  ; 
in  that  encourageth  rankness.  So  art  thou  but  a  weed,  O 
Khipil !  and  my  grace  is  thy  chastisement.' " 

We  hope  we  have  said,  if  not  enough  to  do  justice 
36 


on  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat 

to  "  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat,"  enough  to  make  our 
readers  desire  to  see  it.  They  will  find  it,  compared 
with  the  other  fictions  which  the  season  has  provided, 
to  use  its  own  Oriental  style, "  as  the  apple-tree  among 
the  trees  of  the  wood." 


37 


IV 
GEORGE  ELIOT 

ON 

THE  SHAVING  OF   SHAGPAT 

[The  following  short  extract  is  taken  from  "  Art  and  Belles  Lettres  " 
in  The  Westminster  Review  (vol.  Ixv.,  No.  cxviii.),  New  Series,  vol.  IK,, 
No.  ii.,  pp.  625-650,  April,  1856,  an  article  which  also  contained 
among  many  short  notices  reviews  of  the  third  volume  of  Ruskin's 
"Modern  Painters,"  Wilkie  Collins's  "After  Dark,"  and  Kingsley's 
"  The  Heroes,"  and  a  reference  to  and  quotation  from  Walt  Whitman's 
"Leaves  of  Grass."  "The  Shaving  of  Shagpat"  passage  occurs 
on  pp.  638-639.] 

WE  turn  from  the  art  which  most  of  us  must  leave 
our  homes  to  get  even  a  glimpse  of,  to  that  which 
has  at  least  the  advantage  of  visiting  us  at  our  own 
firesides — the  art  of  the  romancer  and  the  novelist ; 
and  the  first  work  of  fiction  that  presents  itself 
as  worth  notice  is  "The  Shaving  of  Shagpat,"  an 
admirable  imitation  of  Oriental  tale-telling,  which  has 
given  us  far  more  pleasure  than  we  remember  to  have 
had  even  in  younger  days  from  reading  "  Vathek  " — 
the  object  of  Byron's  enthusiastic  praise.  Of  course 
the  great  mass  of  fictions  are  imitations  more  or  less 
slavish  and  mechanical — imitations  of  Scott,  of  Balzac, 
of  Dickens,  of  Currer  Bell,  and  the  rest  of  the  real 
"  makers " ;  every  great  master  has  his  school  of 

38 


George  Eliot  on  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat 

followers,  from  the  kindred  genius  down  to  the  feeble 
copyist.  "  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat "  is  distinguished 
from  the  common  run  of  fictions,  not  in  being  an 
imitation,  but  in  the  fact  that  its  model  has  been 
chosen  from  no  incidental  prompting,  from  no  wish 
to  suit  the  popular  mood,  but  from  genuine  love  and 
mental  affinity.  Perhaps  we  ought  to  say  that  it  is 
less  an  imitation  of  the  "  Arabian  Nights  "  than  a 
similar  creation  inspired  by  a  thorough  and  admiring 
study.  No  doubt,  if  a  critical  lens  were  to  be 
applied,  there  would  be  found  plenty  of  indications 
that  the  writer  was  born  in  Western  Europe,  and  in 
the  nineteenth  century,  and  that  his  Oriental  imagery 
is  got  by  hearsay;  but  to  people  more  bent  on 
enjoying  what  they  read  than  on  proving  their  acumen, 
"  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat "  will  be  the  thousand  and 
second  night  which  they  perhaps  longed  for  in  their 
childhood.  The  author  is  alive  to  every  element 
in  his  models ;  he  reproduces  their  humour  and 
practical  sense  as  well  as  their  wild  imaginativeness. 
Shibli  Bagarag,  the  barber,  carries  a  great  destiny 
within  him :  he  is  to  shave  Shagpat  the  clothier,  and 
thus  to  become  Master  of  the  Event.  The  city  of 
Shagpat,  unlike  the  city  of  London,  regards  shaving, 
and  not  the  beard,  as  the  innovation  ;  and  Shagpat  is 
a  "miracle  of  hairiness,  black  with  hair  as  he  had 
been  muzzled  with  it,  and  his  head,  as  it  were,  a  berry 
in  a  huge  bush  by  reason  of  it,"  and  when  the 
countenance  of  Shagpat  waxed  fiery  it  was  as  "a 
flame  kindled  by  travellers  at  night  in  a  bramble 
bush,  and  he  ruffled  and  heaved,  and  was  as  when 

39 


George  Eliot  on  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat 

dense  jungle-growths  are  stirred  violently  by  the  near 
approach  of  a  wild  animal."  Moreover,  among  the 
myriad  hairs  of  Shagpat  is  the  mysterious  "  Identical," 
which  somehow  holds  the  superstition  of  men  in 
bondage,  so  that  they  bow  to  it  without  knowing 
why — the  most  obstinate  of  all  bowing,  as  we  are 
aware.  Hence  he  who  will  shave  Shagpat,  and 
deliver  men  from  worshipping  his  hairy  mightiness, 
will  deserve  to  be  called  Master  of  the  Event ; 
and  the  story  of  all  the  adventures  through  which 
Shibli  Bagarag  went  before  he  achieved  this  great 
work — the  thwackings  he  endured,  the  wondrous 
scenes  he  beheld,  and  the  dangers  he  braved  to 
possess  himself  of  the  magic  horse  Garaveen,  the  Lily 
of  the  Enchanted  Sea,  and  other  indispensable  things, 
with  his  hairbreadth  escapes  from  spiteful  genii — all 
this  forms  the  main  action  of  the  book.  Other  tales 
are  introduced,  serving  as  pleasant  landing  places  on 
the  way.  The  best  of  these  is  the  story  of  Khipil 
the  Builder,  a  humorous  apologue,  which  will  please 
readers  who  are  unable  to  enjoy  the  wilder  imagi- 
nativeness of  Oriental  fiction  ;  but  lovers  of  the 
poetical  will  prefer  the  story  of  Bhanavar  the  Beauti- 
ful. We  confess  to  having  felt  rather  a  languishing 
interest  towards  the  end  of  the  work ;  the  details  of 
the  action  became  too  complicated,  and  our  imagina- 
tion was  rather  wearied  in  following  them.  But  where 
is  the  writer  whose  wing  is  as  strong  at  the  end  of 
his  flight  as  at  the  beginning?  Even  Shakespeare 
flags  under  the  artificial  necessities  of  a  denouement. 


40 


w~~ 


FARINA:  A  LEGEND  OF 
COLOGNE 


GEORGE  ELIOT 

ON 

FARINA 

[This  review  forms  part  of  the  article  on  "  Belles  Lettres  and  Art " 
in  The  Westminster  Review  (vol.  Ixviii.,  No.  cxxxiv.),  New  Series, 
vol.  xii.,  No.  ii.,  October,  1851,  pp.  585-604.  Alexander  Smith's 
"City  Poems,"  Moxon's  edition  of  Tennyson's  "Poems,"  illustrated 
by  Millais,  Rossetti,  Holman  Hunt,  and  others,  "The  Elements  of 
Drawing,"  by  John  Ruskin,  Anthony  Trollope's  "  Barchester  Towers," 
and  Flaubert's  "Madame  Bovary,"  were,  with  a  number  of  other 
books,  treated  in  this  article.  The  following  passage  appears  on 
PP-  597-599-] 

THE  author  of  "  Farina "  has  exposed  himself  to  a 
somewhat  trying  ordeal  Last  year  he  treated  us 
to  a  delightful  volume  of  well-sustained  Oriental 
extravagance,  and  we  remember  our  friend  Shibli 
Bagarag  too  well  to  be  easily  satisfied  with  any  hero 
less  astonishing.  It  was  refreshing  to  leave  the 
actual  and  the  probable  for  a  time,  and  follow  Mr. 
Meredith's  lead  into  the  bright  world  of  imagination. 
The  hope  of  such  another  enchanted  holiday  pre- 
pared us  to  welcome  his  new  tale  with  all  due  honour 
and  cordiality.  It  was  with  something  like  disap- 
pointment, therefore,  that  we  found  ourselves  brought 
down  to  the  vulgar  limits  of  time  and  place,  and  our 

43 


George  Eliot 

appetite  for  the  marvellous  entirely  spoilt  by  scenes 
which  challenge  prosaic  considerations  of  historical 
truth  and  the  fitness  of  things.  The  title,  "  Farina  : 
a  Legend  of  Cologne,"  will  naturally  carry  the 
reader's  mind  to  those  ungainly-shaped  bottles,  with 
which  the  British  tourist  is  sure  to  return  laden  from 
the  city  of  evil  smells.  Mr.  Meredith  is  pleased  to 
bestow  a  high  antiquity  on  the  famous  distillation, 
and  his  hero,  doubtless  the  first  of  all  the  Jean 
Maries,  is  invested  with  the  dubious  honours  of  a 
dealer  in  the  black  art,  on  account  of  his  suspicious 
collection  of  bottles  and  vases,  pipes  and  cylinders. 
But  when  the  Devil  is  beaten  in  single  combat  on 
the  Drachenfels,  and  returns  from  whence  he  came, 
entering  to  his  kingdom  under  the  Cathedral  Square, 
and  leaving  behind  him  a  most  abominable  stench, 
Farina's  perfumed  water  does  good  service.  The 
Kaiser,  six  times  driven  back  by  the  offence  to  his 
nostrils,  is  enabled  to  enter  the  good  city  of  Cologne, 
and  then  and  there  reward  the  restorer  of  a  pure 
atmosphere  with  the  hand  of  his  long-loved  bride. 
For  the  rest,  the  story  is  sufficiently  slight.  We 
have  the  blonde  and  bewitching  heroine,  Margarita, 
and  her  troop  of  lovers,  who  prove  their  devotion  by 
such  strenuous  interchange  of  blows  in  her  honour, 
that  there  is  not  one  of  them  who  is  not  black  and 
blue  ;  and  we  have  the  lover,  Farina,  tender  and  true, 
brave  as  Siegfried,  and  worshipping  his  "  Frankinne  " 
with  such  fanatical  homage  as  "  Conrad  the  Pious  " 
might  have  sung.  Margarita's  father,  Gottlieb  Gro- 
schen,  the  rich  Cologne  citizen,  is  a  characteristic 

44 


on  Farina 

specimen  of  the  prosperous  mediaeval  Rhinelander, 
and  we  cannot  give  our  readers  a  more  favourable 
specimen  of  Mr.  Meredith's  style  than  by  introducing 
the  father  and  daughter,  engaged  in  receiving  that 
nuisance  of  the  middle — as  of  all  ages — morning 
visitors : — 

"  A  clatter  in  the  Cathedral  Square  brought  Gottlieb  on 
his  legs  to  the  window.  It  was  a  company  of  horsemen 
sparkling  in  harness.  One  trumpeter  rode  on  the  side  of 
the  troop,  and  in  front  a  standard-bearer,  matted  down  the 
chest  with  ochre  beard,  displayed  aloft  to  the  good  citizens 
of  Cologne,  three  brown  hawks,  with  birds  in  their  beaks, 
on  an  azure  star-dotted  field.  '  Holy  Cross  ! '  exclaimed 
Gottlieb,  low  in  his  throat,  c  the  arms  of  Werner  !  Where 
got  he  money  to  mount  his  men  ?  Why,  this  is  daring  all 
Cologne  in  our  very  teeth !  'Fend  that  he  visit  me  now ! 
Ruin  smokes  in  that  ruffian's  track.  I've  felt  hot  and  cold 
by  turns  all  day.'  The  horsemen  came  jingling  carelessly 
along  the  street  in  scattered  twos  and  threes,  laughing 
together,  and  singling  out  the  maidens  at  the  gable- 
shadowed  window  with  hawking  eyes.  They  were  in  truth 
ferocious-looking  fellows.  Leather,  steel,  and  dust,  clad 
them  from  head  to  foot ;  big  and  black  as  bears ;  wolf- 
eyed,  fox-nosed.  They  glistened  bravely  in  the  falling 
beams  of  the  sun,  and  Margarita  thrust  her  fair  braided 
yellow  head  a  little  forward  over  her  father's  shoulder,  to 
catch  the  whole  length  of  the  grim  cavalcade.  One  of  the 
troop  was  not  long  in  discerning  the  young  beauty." 

They  come  to  the  door  with  a  "  thundering  smack," 
and  one  is  perforce  admitted  : — 

"  Margarita  heard  '  wafted  in  a  thunder  of  oaths,' '  'Tis 
the  maiden  we  want ;  let's  salute  her  and  begone  !  or  cap 

45 


George  Eliot 

your  skull  with  something  thicker  than  you've  on  it  now,  if 
you  want  a  whole  one,  happy  father ! '  '  Gottlieb  von 
Groschen,  I  am,'  answered  her  father,  '  and  the  Kaiser—— ' 
'  'Sas  fond  of  a  pretty  girl  as  we  are  !  Down  with  her, 
and  no  more  drivelling  !  It's  only  for  a  moment,  old 
Measure  and  Scales  ! '  'I  tell  you,  rascals,  I  know  your 
master,  and  if  you're  not  punished  for  this,  may  I  die  a 
beggar ! '  exclaimed  Gottlieb,  jumping  with  rage.  '  May 
you  die  as  rich  as  an  abbot !  And  so  you  will,  if  you  don't 
bring  her  down,  for  I've  sworn  to  see  her,  there's  the  end 
of  it,  man!'" 

Fearing  violence  to  her  father,  Margarita  comes 
down  ;  her  brutal  admirer  explains  : — 

" c  I'm  no  ninny,  and  not  to  be  diddled ;  I'll  talk  to  the 
young  lady  !  Silence  out  there  !  all's  going  proper ; '  this 
to  his  comrades  through  the  door.  '  So,  my  beautiful 
maiden  !  thus  it  stands.  We  saw  you  at  the  window,  look- 
ing like  a  fresh  rose  with  a  gold  crown  on.  .  .  .  '  Schwartz 
Thier  ! '  says  Henker  Rothhals  to  me,  '  I'll  wager  you  odds 
you  don't  have  a  kiss  of  that  fine  girl  within  twenty 
minutes  counting  from  the  hard  smack  ! '  '  Done,'  was  my 
word,  and  we  clapped  our  fists  together.  Now,  you  see, 
that's  straightforward ! ' " 

How  Margarita  escapes  this  indignity,  how  she 
becomes  the  captive  of  the  terrible  Werner  himself, 
and  how  she  is  rescued,  we  have  not  space  to  tell ; 
much  clever  and  vigorous  description  is  to  be  found 
in  the  narrative,  and  Mr.  Meredith  has  been  very 
successful  in  setting  before  us  a  vivid  picture  of  the 
coarse,  rough  manners,  the  fierce,  warlike  habits,  and 
the  deep-seated  superstition  of  the  "  good  old  times  " 

46 


on  Farina 

of  chivalry.  The  character  of  the  jovial  Squire  Guy 
the  Goshawk,  is  especially  well  done.  As  a  whole, 
we  think  "  Farina "  lacks  completeness,  and  the 
ghostly  element  is'  not  well  worked  in.  The  combat 
between  Saint  Gregory  and  the  Devil  is  made 
ludicrous  by  its  circumstantiality.  It  was  not  as  a 
jeering  satirist  that  the  old  monkish  legends  set  forth 
Sathanas,  and  there  is  a  clumsiness  in  the  whole 
affair  which  accords  ill  with  the  boldness  and  skill 
displayed  in  other  portions  of  the  tale.  We  must 
also  protest  against  Father  Gregory's  use  of  the 
nominative  case  "  ye  "  instead  of  the  accusative  "  you," 
monk  though  he  be,  and  privileged  doubtless  to  speak 
bad  grammar  at  will ;  nor  can  we  admire  many 
passages,  in  which  the  author  has  sacrificed  euphony, 
and  almost  sense,  to  novelty  and  force  of  expression. 
With  these  blemishes,  "  Farina  "  is  both  an  original 
and  an  entertaining  book,  and  will  be  read  with 
pleasure  by  all  who  prefer  a  lively,  spirited  story  to 
those  dull  analyses  of  dull  experiences  in  which  the 
present  school  of  fiction  abounds. 


47 


THE   ORDEAL  OF   RICHARD 
FEVEREL 


VI 

THE  TIMES 

ON 

THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

[From  The  Times,  No.  23,437,  October  14,  1859,  p.  5.] 

THE  writer  of  an  extraordinary  novel  must  expect 
a  more  than  ordinarily  strict  criticism.  It  is  a 
compliment  to  him  and  a  duty  to  the  public.  A 
compliment  to  him,  because,  notwithstanding  his 
offences,  he  is  treated  with  the  attention  due  to  a 
superior  artist.  A  duty  to  the  public,  because,  not- 
withstanding his  effectiveness,  it  is  requisite,  for  the 
sake  of  heedless  or  incompetent  readers,  to  indicate, 
if  we  can,  his  artistic  deficiencies.  But  there  is 
unusual  difficulty  in  performing  a  critic's  duty  upon 
this  occasion.  Mr.  Meredith  is  an  original  writer, 
and  his  book  is  a  powerful  book,  penetrative  in  its 
depth  of  insight,  and  rich  in  its  variety  of  experience. 
But  it  is  also  very  oracular  and  obscure  in  parts,  and, 
as  we  conceive,  extremely  weak  in  the  development 
of  its  main  purpose.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  so 
crystalline  and  brilliant  in  its  principal  passages, 
there  is  such  purity  mingled  with  its  laxness,  such 
sound  and  firm  truth  in  the  midst  of  its  fantastic 

51  E  2 


The  Times 

subtleties,  that  we  hesitate  whether  to  approve  or 
condemn  ;  and  we  have  a  difficulty  even  in  forming 
a  judgment  on  such  strange  contrarieties. 

Let  us  premise  that  Mr.  Meredith  belongs  to  a 
class  of  fictionists  who  are  more  rare  than  welcome — 
more  honoured  than  popular.     There  are  two  classes 
of  novelists  (apart  from  the  simious  tribe,  who  are 
mere  meaningless  imitators),  and  Mr.  Meredith  is  of 
the  humourist  class,  which  draws  its  presentment  of 
mankind  in  a  large  degree  from  its  inner  conscious- 
ness, while  the  other  class  paints  life  phenomenally, 
as  the  majority  would  see  it.     The  distinction  hardly 
holds,  in  an  absolute  sense,  as  separating  rigidly  the 
one  class  from  the  other;    but  it  is   a  distinction 
which  applies  more  or  less  in  every  instance  in  which 
a  fictionist  is  entitled  to  be  characterised  at  all.    The 
humourist  draws  more  from  his  humour  than  from 
obvious  facts — from  his  modes  of  thought  than  from 
the  manners  of  his  time.     He  spins  his  web,  like  the 
spider,  out  of  his  own  bowels,  instead  of  gathering 
his  materials  here  and  there  and  building  them  up 
like  the  ant.     The  opposite  class,  among  whom  are 
the  Shakspeares  and  Scotts,  are  more  expansive  in 
their  conceptions,  and,  concurrently,  more  dependent 
on  externals  for  their  means.     The  humourist — take 
even  Rabelais,  for  example — is  subjective,  self-search- 
ing, self-evolved  and   sustained  ;    he  is  a  stronger 
solvent  of  his  secret  pabulum,  whatever  that  may  be, 
and  he  hangs  on  the  gauzy  films  of  his  own  imagina- 
tion.     His  task  is  obviously  more  arduous,  for  he 
relies    so    much    on    himself;    and   his   success    is 

52 


on  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel 

proportionate  to  the  power  which  is  in  him.  But  his 
success  is  not  a  popular  success,  for  it  is  personal 
and  distinctive ;  nor  can  he  be  tried  by  popular  tests 
which  are  the  devices  of  the  average  mind.  Now 
Mr.  Meredith  belongs  to  the  latter  class  more  exclu- 
sively than  most  novelists,  and  his  characters  are 
more  entirely  symbols  and  shadows  of  his  thought 
than  ordinary  everyday  denizens  of  the  world  about 
him.  It  would  be  unfair  to  try  him  by  the  standard 
relations  of  novels  to  life ;  for,  as  a  humourist,  he 
conceives  humourists,  and  includes  them  in  a  world 
of  his  own  shaping. 

But  it  is  fair  and  appropriate  to  try  if  his  world 
holds  together  on  its  own  principles,  and,  with  this 
view,  to  question  the  plan  and  object  of  its  creation. 
We  are  not  certain  that  we  fully  understand  its 
object  in  the  present  case,  and  this  may  be  our  fault. 
Is  it,  however,  really  our  fault,  or  Mr.  Meredith's, 
that  we  are  not  able  to  render  his  meaning  with 
confidence  ?  Is  it  not  his  fault  that  we  should  have 
to  suggest  the  point  as  a  question,  and  should  fall 
back  with  some  misgiving  on  our  vague  apprehen- 
sions ? 

As  we  conceive,  the  purport  of  Mr.  Meredith's 
book  is  to  explode  the  system  of  an  offended 
humourist — one  Sir  Austin  Feverel,  a  despiser  of 
women,  into  whose  disparagement  of  the  gentler  sex 
there  enters  a  large  measure  of  pique  and  of  personal 
resentment,  occasioned  by  the  treachery  and  deser- 
tion of  his  wife.  Having  a  son  —  one  Richard 
Feverel — on  his  hands  to  educate,  and  for  whom  he 

53 


The  Times 

entertains  strong  affection,  nevertheless  he  gratifies  his 
wrath  at  his  wife  by  subjecting  this  boy  to  the  ordeal 
of  an  educational  system  which  is  to  render  him 
forcibly  a  pattern  of  moral  excellence.  He  deceives 
himself  into  believing  that  he  acts  as  he  does  out  of 
regard  to  his  son ;  for  his  pique  leavens  his  theory, 
and  eventually  becomes  its  Nemesis.  There  is  a 
vagueness,  or  rather  a  confusion,  in  Sir  Austin's 
motives,  which  his  system  partakes,  for  its  tendency 
and  appliances  are  by  no  means  transparent.  Its 
gist,  as  applied  to  Sir  Austin's  educational  crotchet, 
is  this : — 

"  That  a  golden  age,  or  something  near  it,  might  yet  be 
established  on  our  sphere,  when  fathers  accepted  their 
solemn  responsibility,  and  studied  human  nature  with  a 
scientific  eye,  knowing  what  a  high  science  it  is  to  live ; 
and  that,  by  hedging  round  the  youth  from  corruptness, 
and  at  the  same  time  promoting  his  animal  health,  by 
helping  him  to  grow,  as  he  would,  like  a  tree  of  Eden ;  by 
advancing  him  to  a  certain  moral  fortitude  ere  the  Apple 
Disease  was  spontaneously  developed,  there  would  be  seen 
something  approaching  to  a  perfect  man,  as  the  Baronet 
trusted  to  make  this  one  son  of  his,  after  a  recipe  of  his 
own." 

The  Apple  Disease,  as  it  is  quaintly  termed,  is 
the  mutual  affection  of  the  sexes,  supposed  to  have 
been  generated  in  Paradise,  as  a  consequence  of  our 
corrupted  nature,  and  from  this  affection  it  is  the 
endeavour  of  Sir  Austin  to  preserve  his  son  as  long 
as  possible,  by  training  him  on  a  Spartan  nurture, 
with  all  the  advantages  of  science.  His  design  is 

54 


on  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel 

only  half  approved  by  the  relatives  whom  he  hospit- 
ably houses,  and  who,  according  to  their  various 
temperaments  and  views,  oppose  or  acquiesce  in  his 
design.  His  sister,  Mrs.  Doria,  who  has  a  daughter 
Clare,  whom  she  destines  for  Richard,  and  who  has 
"  the  far  sight,  the  deep  determination,  the  resolute 
perseverance  of  her  sex,  where  a  daughter  is  to  be 
provided  for,  and  a  man  overthrown,"  fixes  herself  at 
Raynham,  Sir  Austin's  residence,  with  the  deliberate 
intent  to  watch  the  system  and  sap  it.  But  Richard 
is  saved  from  becoming  the  shuttlecock  of  these  con- 
tending influences  by  his  indifference  to  his  cousin 
Clare,  who  is,  nevertheless,  tenderly  attached  to  him. 
He  grows  up  with  partial  and  dubious  help  from  the 
system,  a  brave,  strong-willed,  high-minded  boy, 
given  to  feats  and  pranks  of  unusual  audacity,  but 
with  no  premature  symptoms  of  the  Apple  Disease, 
until  Sir  Austin  shuts  up  the  safety-valve  of  poetry 
to  which  he  had  become  addicted,  and  precipitates 
a  crisis : — 

"When  Nature  has  made  us  ripe  for  love,  it  seldom 
occurs  that  the  fates  are  behindhand  in  furnishing  a  temple 
for  the  flame. 

"Above  green  flashing  plunges  of  a  weir,  and  shaken 
by  the  thunder  below,  lilies,  golden  and  white,  were  swaying 
at  anchor  among  the  reeds.  Meadow-sweet  hung  from  the 
banks  thick  with  weed  and  trailing  bramble,  and  there  also 
hung  a  daughter  of  Earth.  Her  face  was  shaded  by  a  broad 
straw  hat,  with  a  flexile  brim  that  left  her  lips  and  chin  in 
the  sun,  and,  sometimes  nodding,  sent  forth  a  light  of 
promising  eyes.  Across  her  shoulders  and  behind  flowed 

55 


The  Times 

large,  loose  curls,  brown  in  shadow,  almost  golden  where 
the  ray  touched  them.  She  was  simply  dressed,  befitting 
decency  and  the  season.  On  a  closer  inspection  you  might 
see  that  her  lips  were  stained.  This  blooming  young  person 
was  regaling  on  dewberries.  They  grew  between  the  bank 
and  the  water.  Apparently  she  found  the  fruit  abundant, 
for  her  hand  was  making  pretty  progress  to  her  mouth. 
Fastidious  youth,  which  shudders  and  revolts  at  woman 
plumping  her  exquisite  proportions  on  bread  and  butter, 
and  would,  we  must  suppose,  joyfully  have  her  quite  scraggy 
to  have  her  quite  poetical,  can  hardly  object  to  dewberries. 
Indeed,  the  act  of  eating  them  is  dainty  and  induces  musing. 
The  dewberry  is  a  sister  to  the  lotos,  and  an  innocent  sister. 
You  eat;  mouth,  eye,  and  hand  are  occupied,  and  the 
undrugged  mind  free  to  roam.  And  so  it  was  with  the 
little  damsel  who  knelt  there.  The  little  skylark  went  up 
above  her,  all  song,  to  the  smooth  southern  cloud  lying 
along  the  blue ;  from  a  dewy  copse  standing  dark  over  her 
nodding  hat,  the  blackbird  fluted,  calling  to  her  with  thrice 
mellow  note;  the  kingfisher  flashed  emerald  out  of  green 
osiers;  a  bow-winged  heron  travelled  aloft,  searching 
solitude ;  a  boat  slipped  towards  her,  containing  a  dreamy 
youth,  and  still  she  plucked  the  fruit,  and  ate,  and  mused, 
as  if  no  fairy  prince  were  invading  her  territories,  and  as 
if  she  wished  not  for  one,  or  knew  not  her  wishes.  Sur- 
rounded by  the  green  shaven  meadows,  the  pastoral  summer 
buzz,  the  weir-fall's  thundering  white,  amid  the  breath  and 
beauty  of  wildflowers,  she  was  a  bit  of  lovely  human  life 
in  a  fair  setting ;  a  terrible  attraction.  The  Magnetic  Youth 
leaned  round  to  note  his  proximity  to  the  weir-piles,  and 
beheld  the  sweet  vision.  Stiller  and  stiller  grew  nature, 
as  at  the  meeting  of  two  electric  clouds.  Her  posture  was 
so  graceful  that,  though  he  was  making  straight  for  the 
weir,  he  dared  not  dip  a  scull.  Just  then  one  most  enticing 

56 


on  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel 

dewberry  caught  her  eye.  He  was  floating  by  unheeded, 
and  saw  that  her  hand  stretched  low,  and  could  not  gather 
what  it  sought.  A  stroke  from  his  right  brought  him  beside 
her.  The  damsel  glanced  up  dismayed,  and  her  whole 
shape  trembled  over  the  brink.  Richard  sprang  from  his 
boat  into  the  water.  Pressing  a  hand  beneath  her  foot, 
which  she  had  thrust  against  the  crumbling  wet  sides  of 
the  bank  to  save  herself,  he  enabled  her  to  recover  her 
balance,  and  gain  safe  earth,  whither,  emboldened  by  the 
incident,  touching  her  finger's  tip,  he  followed  her." 

The  damsel  is  the  niece  of  a  neighbouring  farmer, 
and  the  interview  proceeds  to  its  denouement  thus 
naturally  in  the  manner  of  Ferdinand  and  Miranda, 
through  a  passage  replete  with  freshness  and  vigour 
of  no  common  order : — 

"Richard,  with  his  eyes  still  intently  fixed  on  her, 
returned,  '  You  are  very  beautiful ! ' 

"The  words  slipped  out.  Perfect  simplicity  is  un- 
consciously audacious.  Her  overpowering  beauty  struck 
his  heart,  and,  like  an  instrument  that  is  touched  and 
answers  to  the  touch,  he  spoke. 

"Miss  Desborough  made  an  effort  to  trifle  with  this 
terrible  directness;  but  his  eyes  would  not  be  gainsaid, 
and  checked  her  lips.  She  turned  away  from  them,  her 
bosom  a  little  rebellious.  Praise  so  passionately  spoken, 
and  by  one  who  has  been  a  damsel's  first  dream,  dreamed 
of  nightly  many  long  nights,  and  clothed  in  the  virgin 
silver  of  her  thoughts  in  bud,  praise  from  him  is  coin  the 
heart  cannot  reject  if  it  would.  She  quickened  her  steps 
to  the  stile. 

" '  I  have  offended  you,'  said  a  mortally  wounded  voice 
across  her  shoulder. 

"  That  he  should  think  so  were  too  dreadful. 

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The  Times 

" '  Oh,  no,  no  !  you  would  never  offend  me.'  She  gave 
him  her  whole  sweet  face. 

" '  Then  why  ?    Why  do  you  leave  me  ? ' 

" '  Because,'  she  hesitated,  '  I  must  go.' 

"'No?  You  must  not  go.  Why  must  you  go?  Do 
not  go.' 

" '  Indeed,  I  must,'  she  said,  pulling  at  the  obnoxious 
broad  brim  of  her  hat ;  and,  interpreting  a  pause  he  made 
for  his  assent  to  her  sensible  resolve,  shyly  looking  at  him , 
she  held  her  hand  out  and  said,  '  Good-bye,'  as  if  it  were  a 
natural  thing  to  say. 

"  The  hand  was  pure  white,  white  and  fragrant  as  the 
frosted  blossom  of  a  May  night.  It  was  the  hand  whose 
shadow  cast  before  he  had  last  night  bent  his  head 
reverentially  above,  and  kissed,  resigning  himself  thereupon 
over  to  execution  for  payment  of  the  penalty  of  such 
daring ;  by  such  bliss  well  rewarded. 

"He  took  the  hand,  and  held  it;  gazing  between  her 
eyes. 

" '  Good-bye,'  she  said  again,  as  frankly  as  she  could, 
and  at  the  same  time  slightly  compressing  her  fingers  on 
his  in  token  of  adieu.  It  was  a  signal  for  his  to  close 
firmly  upon  hers. 

"  '  You  will  not  go  ? ' 

" c  Pray  let  me,'  she  pleaded,  her  sweet  brows  suing  in 
wrinkles. 

" '  You  will  not  go  ? '  Mechanically  he  drew  the  white 
hand  nearer  his  thumping  heart. 

" '  I  must,'  she  faltered  piteously. 

" '  You  will  not  go  ? ' 

"«Ohyes!  yes!' 

" '  Tell  me.     Do  you  wish  to  go  ? ' 

"  The  question  was  subtle.  A  moment  or  two  she  did 
not  answer,  and  then  forswore  herself,  and  said,  '  Yes.' 

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on  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel 

"'Do  you;  do  you  wish  to  go?'  He  looked  with 
quivering  eyelids  under  hers. 

"  A  fainter  '  Yes,'  responded  to  his  passionate  repetition. 

'"You  wish;  wish  to  leave  me?'  His  breath  went 
with  the  words. 

" '  Indeed,  I  must.' 

"  Her  hand  became  a  closer  prisoner. 

"All  at  once  an  alarming,  delicious  shudder  went 
through  her  frame.  From  him  to  her  it  coursed,  and  back 
from  her  to  him.  Forward  and  back  Love's  electric  mes- 
senger rushed  from  heart  to  heart,  knocking  at  each,  till  it 
surged  tumultuously  against  the  bars  of  its  prison  crying 
out  for  its  mate.  They  stood  trembling  in  unison — a  lovely 
couple  under  these  fair  heavens  of  the  morning. 

"  When  he  could  get  his  voice  it  was,  '  Will  you  go  ? ' 

"  But  she  had  none  to  reply  with,  and  could  only  mutely 
bend  upward  her  gentle  wrist. 

" '  Then,  farewell,'  he  said,  and  dropping  his  lips  to  the 
soft,  fair  hand,  kissed  it  and  hung  his  head,  swinging  away 
from  her  ready  for  death. 

"  Strange  that  now  she  was  released  she  should  linger 
by  him.  Strange  that  his  audacity,  instead  of  the  execu- 
tioner, brought  blushes  and  timid  tenderness  to  his  side, 
and  the  sweet  words,  '  You  are  not  angry  with  me  ? ' 

"'With  you,  O  beloved?'  cried  his  soul.  'And  you 
forgive  me,  Fair  Charity ! ' 

"She  repeated  her  words  in  deeper  sweetness  to  his 
bewildered  look  ;  and  he,  inexperienced,  possessed  by  her, 
almost  lifeless  with  the  divine  new  emotions  she  had  realised 
in  him,  could  only  sigh,  and  gaze  at  her  wonderingly. 

" '  I  think  it  was  rude  of  me  to  go  without  thanking  you 
again,'  she  said,  and  again  proffered  her  hand. 

"The  sweet  heaven-bird  shivered  out  his  song  above 
him.  The  gracious  glory  of  Heaven  fell  upon  his  soul. 

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The  Times 

He  touched  her  hand,  not  moving  his  eyes  from  her,  nor 
speaking,  and  she,  with  a  soft  word  of  farewell,  passed 
across  the  stile  and  up  the  pathway  through  the  dewy 
shades  of  the  copse,  and  out  of  the  arch  of  the  light,  away 
from  his  eyes. 

"And  away  with  her  went  the  wild  enchantment;  he 
looked  on  barren  air.  But  it  was  no  more  the  world  of 
yesterday.  The  marvellous  splendours  had  sown  seeds  in 
him,  ready  to  spring  up  and  bloom  at  her  gaze ;  and  in  his 
bosom  now  the  vivid  conjuration  of  her  tones,  her  face,  her 
shape,  makes  them  leap  and  illumine  him  like  fitful  summer 
lightnings — ghosts  of  the  vanished  sun. 

"  There  was  nothing  to  tell  him  that  he  had  been  making 
love  and  declaring  it  with  extraordinary  rapidity ;  nor  did 
he  know  it.  Soft-flushed  cheeks !  sweet  mouth !  strange, 
sweet  brows  !  eyes  of  softest  fire  !  how  could  his  ripe  eyes 
see  you  and  not  plead  to  keep  you  ?  Nay,  how  could  he 
let  you  go  ?  And  he  seriously  asks  himself  that  question. 

"  To-morrow  this  spot  will  have  a  memory ;  the  river, 
and  the  meadow,  and  the  white,  falling  weir;  his  heart 
will  build  a  temple  here ;  and  the  skylark  will  be  its  high- 
priest,  and  the  old  blackbird  its  glossy  gowned  chorister, 
and  there  will  be  a  sacred  repast  of  dewberries.  To-day 
the  grass  is  grass;  his  heart  is  chased  by  phantoms,  and 
finds  rest  nowhere.  Only  when  the  most  tender  freshness 
of  his  flower  comes  across  him  does  he  taste  a  moment's 
calm;  and  no  sooner  does  it  come  than  it  gives  place  to 
keen  pangs  of  fear  that  she  may  not  be  his  for  ever." 

As  the  above  description  augurs,  the  System  is 
likely  to  succeed  through  the  boy's  luck  in  finding  a 
pure  and  charming  object  for  his  first  affections.  But 
his  father  is  bent  on  looking  out  a  suitable  bride  for 
his  son,  according  to  his  notions  of  the  requisites  of 

60 


on  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel 

a  mate  worthy  of  his  pure-blood  barb.  And  though 
in  the  mean  time  the  Fairy  Prince  has  himself  dis- 
covered the  Princess,  the  envious  fates  keep  Cin- 
derella out  of  the  father's  sight,  until  the  latter  hears 
of  the  spontaneous  attachment  through  a  cynical 
relative,  and  determines  to  break  off  what  he  con- 
siders the  boy's  foolish  liaison.  Thereupon  Richard 
is  summoned  to  town  and  kept  out  of  the  way  of  his 
betrothed  till  she  can  be  secluded  from  his  search  by 
arrangement  with  her  parents.  When  he  is  allowed 
to  return  to  Raynham,  Lucy  has  disappeared,  and 
the  thwarted  passion  of  the  boy  throws  him  into  a 
brain  fever.  The  scientific  humanist  beholds  his  son 
prostrate,  "  forgetful  even  of  love, — a  drowned  weed 
borne  onward  by  the  tide  of  the  hours  ; "  and  prays 
over  him  without  remorse,  supporting  his  anxiety  by 
his  unbounded  faith  in  the  physical  energy  he  attri- 
butes to  the  System. 

"This  providential  stroke  had  saved  the  youth  from 
Heaven  knew  what !  '  Mark  ! '  said  the  baronet  to  Lady 
Blandish, '  when  he  recovers,  he  will  not  care  for  her.' 

"  The  lady  had  accompanied  him  to  the  Bellingham  Inn 
on  first  hearing  of  Richard's  seizure. 

" '  Oh !  what  an  iron  man  you  can  be,'  she  exclaimed, 
smothering  her  intuitions.  She  was  for  giving  the  boy  his 
bauble ;  promising  it  him,  at  least,  if  he  would  only  get  well 
and  be  the  bright  flower  of  promise  he  once  was. 

" '  Can  you  look  on  him,'  she  pleaded,  '  can  you  look 
on  him,  and  persevere  ? ' 

"  It  was  a  hard  sight  for  this  man  who  loved  his  son  so 
deeply.  The  youth  lay  in  his  strange  bed,  straight  and 
motionless,  with  fever  on  his  cheeks,  and  altered  eyes. 

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The  Times 

" '  See  what  you  do  to  us ! '  said  the  baronet,  sorrow- 
fully eyeing  the  bed. 

"  '  But  if  you  lose  him  ? '  Lady  Blandish  whispered. 

"Sir  Austin  walked  away  from  her,  and  probed  the 
depths  of  his  love.  '  The  stroke  will  not  be  dealt  by  me,' 
he  said. 

"  His  patient  serenity  was  a  wonder  to  all  who  knew 
him.  Indeed,  to  have  doubted  and  faltered  now  was  to 
have  subverted  the  glorious  fabric  just  on  the  verge  of 
completion.  He  believed  that  his  son's  pure  strength  was 
fitted  to  cope  with  any  natural  evil ;  that  such  was  God's 
law.  To  him  Richard's  passion  was  an  ill,  incident  to  the 
ripeness  of  his  years  and  his  perfect  innocence,  and  this 
crisis  the  struggle  of  the  poison  passing  out  of  him — not  to 
be  deplored.  He  was  so  confident  that  he  did  not  even 
send  for  Dr.  Bairam.  Old  Dr.  Clifford,  of  Lobourne,  was 
the  medical  attendant,  who,  with  head-shaking  and  gather- 
ing of  lips,  and  reminiscences  of  ancient  arguments, 
guaranteed  to  do  all  that  leech  could  do  in  the  matter. 
The  old  doctor  did  admit  that  Richard's  constitution  was 
admirable,  and  answered  to  his  prescriptions  like  a  piano 
to  the  musician.  '  But,'  he  said,  at  a  family  consultation, 
for  Sir  Austin  had  told  him  how  it  stood  with  the  young 
man,  '  drugs  are  not  much  in  cases  of  this  sort.  Change  ! 
That's  what's  wanted,  and  as  soon  as  may  be.  Distraction  ! 
He  ought  to  see  the  world,  and  know  what  he's  made  of. 
It's  no  use  my  talking,  I  know,'  added  the  doctor. 

"  '  On  the  contrary,'  said  Sir  Austin,  '  I  am  quite  of  your 
persuasion.  And  the  world  he  shall  see — now.' 

***** 

"  When  the  young  experiment  again  knew  the  hours 
that  rolled  him  onward,  he  was  in  his  own  room  at  Rayn- 
ham.  Nothing  had  changed  :  only  a  strong  fist  had  knocked 
him  down  and  stunned  him,  and  he  opened  his  eyes  to  a 

62 


on  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel 

gray  world.  He  had  forgotten  what  he  lived  for.  He  was 
weak,  and  thin,  and  with  a  pale  memory  of  things.  His 
functions  were  the  same,  everything  surrounding  him  was 
the  same ;  he  looked  upon  the  old  blue  hills,  the  far-lying 
fallows,  the  rivers,  and  the  woods ;  he  knew  them,  but  they 
seemed  to  have  lost  recollection  of  him.  Nor  could  he 
find  in  familiar  human  faces  the  secret  of  intimacy  of  here- 
tofore. They  were  the  same  faces  ;  they  nodded  and  smiled 
to  him.  What  was  lost  he  could  not  tell.  Something  had 
been  knocked  out  of  him.  He  was  sensible  of  his  father's 
sweetness  of  manner,  and  he  was  grieved  that  he  could  not 
reply  to  it,  for  every  sense  of  shame  and  reproach  had 
strangely  gone.  He  felt  very  useless.  In  place  of  the 
fiery  love  for  one,  he  now  bore  about  a  cold  charity  to  all. 

"  Thus  in  the  heart  of  the  young  man  died  the  spring 
primrose,  and  while  it  died  another  heart  was  pushing 
forth  the  primrose  of  autumn. 

"  The  wonderful  change  in  Richard,  and  the  wisdom  of 
her  admirer,  now  positively  proved,  were  exciting  matters 
to  Lady  Blandish.  She  was  rebuked  for  certain  little 
rebellious  fancies  concerning  him  that  had  come  across  her 
enslaved  mind  from  time  to  time.  For  was  he  not  almost 
a  prophet  ?  It  distressed  the  sentimental  lady  that  a  love 
like  Richard's  could  pass  off  in  mere  smoke,  and  words 
such  as  she  had  heard  him  speak  in  Abbey-wood  resolve  to 
emptiness.  Nay,  it  humiliated  her  personally,  and  the 
baronet's  shrewd  prognostication  humiliated  her.  For  how 
should  he  know,  and  dare  to  say,  that  love  was  a  thing  of 
the  dust  that  could  be  trodden  out  under  the  heel  of  science  ? 
But  he  had  said  so,  and  he  had  proved  himself  right.  She 
heard  with  wonderment  that  Richard  of  his  own  accord  had 
spoken  to  his  father  of  the  folly  he  had  been  guilty  of, 
and  had  begged  his  pardon.  The  baronet  told  her  this, 
adding  that  the  youth  had  done  it  in  a  cold  unwavering  way, 

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The  Times 

without  a  movement  of  his  features ;  had  evidently  done  it 
to  throw  off  the  burden  of  the  duty  he  had  conceived,  and 
thereafter  passed  by." 

But  the  baronet  and  Richard  himself  are  deceived 
as  to  his  state,  as  the  event  proves  when  the  decep- 
tion is  exploded  by  a  recurrence  of  opportunity, 
on  Richard's  appearance  in  town.  Again  he  meets 
Lucy,  and  rushing  to  his  goal  in  defiance  of  the 
System,  he  instantly  carries  her  off,  and  with  the 
assistance  of  some  minor  agents  succeeds  in  marrying 
her.  This  stage  of  the  hero's  ordeal,  while  Lucy  is 
secluded  preparatory  to  her  nuptials,  is  told  with 
charming  freshness  and  grace,  and  we  conceive  that 
here  the  author  is  most  adroit  and  felicitous.  But 
then  comes  the  faulty  remnant,  which  spoils  an  effec- 
tive story  by  inconsequential  proceedings  on  the  part 
of  both  father  and  son.  The  father  declines  to  receive 
his  son's  bride,  and,  without  withdrawing  his  counte- 
nance, keeps  out  of  the  way  of  explanations,  apparently 
aiming  at  some  further  probation  of  his  pupil ;  and 
the  son,  by  misrepresentation  of  the  fitting  mode  of 
propitiation,  is  induced  to  abandon  his  wife  for  a  long 
interval,  and  to  mortify  his  affections  to  do  homage 
to  his  father.  Worse  than  this,  in  an  artistic  sense, 
he  is  untrue  to  his  own  nature  and  to  the  passion 
which  is  represented  as  occupying  him  intensely  ;  for 
in  the  interval  he  is  tempted  by  an  enchantress  of  the 
Demi-monde ;  and  without  a  thought  of  love,  in  a 
paroxysm  of  sublime  pity,  he  falls.  Justly  does  Mr. 
Meredith  exclaim  at  the  conclusion  of  his  brilliant 
incantation  scene — "  Was  ever  hero  in  this  fashion 

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on  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel 

won  ? "  for  the  winning  of  the  hero  under  such  circum- 
stances revolts  our  notions  of  consistency,  and  drags 
us  from  the  sphere  of  harmonious  art  into  the  chaos 
of  caprice.     It  is   a  small   compensation  that  these 
inconsistencies  are  the  framework  of  powerful  scenes, 
for  they  tend  to  no  test  of  the  System, pro  or  con>  and 
they  hurry  us  forward  to  a  denouement  still   more 
unsatisfactory.      Thus,  long    after   the    baronet  has 
been   reconciled  to  his  daughter-in-law,    Richard   is 
kept  from  returning  to  his  wife  by  remorse.     When 
he  does  return,  recalled  by  the  knowledge  that  in 
the  mean  time  he  has  become  a  father,  and  his  wife 
receives  him  with  a  tenderness    reviving   hope  and 
confidence,  a  duel  succeeds  in  which  he  is  wounded, 
and  the  wife  who  has  borne  up  against  the  agony  of 
desertion,  in  possession  of  her  child  and  anticipating  a 
reunion  with  her  husband,  dies  of  cerebral  excitement. 
Mr.  Meredith  thereupon  turns  round  and  accuses  the 
System   of  murdering  his  heroine ;  but  for  this  un- 
necessary sacrifice  of  an  innocent  victim,  unnecessary 
because  at  this  stage  in  reference  to  the  System  it 
proves  nothing,  we  take  the  liberty  of  accusing  Mr. 
Meredith  himself.     His  Lucy  is  exquisitely  painted, 
her  conduct  throughout  is  admirable,  she  is  the  pure, 
gentle  sufferer  in  the  contest  of  father  and  son,  and 
when  the  author  owed  her  compensation,  and  just  as 
we  are  expecting  him  to  render  it,  she  is  hurried  off 
the  scene  by  a  catastrophe  in  defiance  of  poetical 
justice.      This  is  neither  the  ancient  nor  the  true 
method.     The  poet  who  has  to  expiate  the  sins  of 
a  race  may  provide  an  innocent  victim  in  deference 

65  F 


The  Times 

to  Nemesis,  but  even  he  rescues  his  Iphigenia  at  the 
critical  moment,  or,  if  he  immolates  his  Antigone, 
it  is  to  find  the  means  of  punishing  her  persecutor. 
Mr.  Meredith's,  on  the  contrary,  is  the  pure  wanton- 
ness of  authorship,  a  barbarity  like  that  for  which 
Mr.  Charles  Dickens  is  so  often  answerable, — that  of 
smothering  innocents  out  of  pure  sentimentalism  ; 
and  if  he  does  not,  like  Mr.  Dickens,  linger  on  the 
agonies  of  his  victims,  he  deserves  equally  to  be 
haunted  by  the  ghost  of  his  most  beautiful  creation. 

Nor,  as  we  said,  does  the  world  which  Mr. 
Meredith  has  brought  together  as  a  test  of  the 
System  otherwise  answer  its  purpose.  The  System  is 
not  responsible  for  Richard's  temptation  and  neglect 
of  his  wife ;  for  Richard's  nature,  as  depicted,  should 
at  least  have  prevented  this.  He  is  represented  as 
completely  under  the  dominion  of  his  instincts,  yet 
he  yields  to  contrary  influences  in  the  very  conjunc- 
ture where  instinct  would  have  proved  strongest  and 
most  certainly  invincible.  Nor  is  it  the  System  which 
retains  him  in  London ;  but  Mr.  Meredith,  who 
accomplishes  the  result  at  the  expense  of  congruity 
and  probability.  The  System  is  arraigned,  but  it  is 
never  tried  fairly,  its  merits  or  demerits  are  unsolved 
to  the  last.  It  is  not  the  System,  but  the  luck  of 
discovering  a  Lucy  which  makes  Richard  up  to  a 
certain  point  a  satisfactory  result.  It  is  not  the 
System,  but  Richard's  inconsistency  which  undoes 
this  result,  and  it  is  pure  accident  which  at  the  last 
precipitates  the  catastrophe.  The  System  is  tried, 
but  it  can  neither  be  acquitted  or  condemned  on 

66 


on  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel 

this   evidence,  and  the  verdict  to   be  taken  on  Mr. 
Meredith's  thesis  is  simply  "  not  proven." 

At  the  same  time  let  us  fairly  acknowledge  the 
striking  merits  of  this  imperfect  book.  Every  touch 
in  the  picture  of  Clare  is  consistent  and  harmonious. 
In  Lady  Blandish,  Sir  Austin's  semi-platonic  friend, 
there  are  traits  of  feminine  nature  which  evince  deep 
penetration.  Good  old  Mrs.  Berry,  the  deserted  wife, 
who  promotes  the  union  of  the  young  couple,  is  a 
more  arbitrary  delineation,  but  touched  with  infinite 
humour.  According  to  her  own  account  of  herself, 
she  is  "  a  widow  and  not  a  widow,  and  haven't  got  a 
name  for  what  she  is  in  any  dixonary.  I've  looked, 
my  dear,  and  " — she  spread  out  her  arms — "  Johnson 
haven't  got  a  name  for  me."  Excellent  is  her  advice 
to  Lucy,  "  Mind  me  and  mark  me  ;  don't  neglect  your 
cookery.  Kissing  don't  last,  cookery  do."  By  atten- 
tion to  this  useful  advice  Lucy  succeeds  very  naturally 
in  conciliating  the  favour  of  Adrian  Harley,  the  man 
of  the  world,  Sir  Austin's  nephew  and  cool  counsellor 
in  ordinary.  Adrian's  character  is  thus  skilfully  elabo- 
rated, under  the  designation  of  the  Wise  Youth  : — 

"  Adrian  had  an  instinct  for  the  majorities,  and,  as  the 
world  invariably  found  him  enlisted  in  its  ranks,  his  appel- 
lation of  Wise  Youth  was  generally  acquiesced  in. 

"  The  Wise  Youth,  then,  had  the  world  with  him,  but 
no  friends.  Nor  did  he  wish  for  these  troublesome  appen- 
dages of  success.  He  caused  himself  to  be  required  by 
people  who  could  serve  him ;  feared  by  such  as  could 
injure.  Not  that  he  went  out  of  the  way  to  secure  his  end, 
or  risked  the  expense  of  a  plot.  He  did  the  work  as 

67 


The  Times 

easily  as  he  ate  his  daily  bread.  Adrian  was  an  Epicurean ; 
one  whom  Epicurus  would  have  scourged  out  of  his  garden, 
certainly — an  Epicurean  of  our  modern  notions.  To  satisfy 
his  appetites  without  rashly  staking  his  character  was  the 
Wise  Youth's  problem  for  life.  He  had  no  intimates, 
save  Gibbon  and  Horace,  and  the  society  of  these  fine 
aristocrats  of  literature  helped  him  to  accept  humanity  as 
it  had  been,  and  was — a  supreme  ironic  procession,  with 
laughter  of  gods  in  the  background.  Why  not  laughter  of 
mortals  also?  Adrian  had  his  laugh  in  his  comfortable 
corner.  He  possessed  peculiar  attributes  of  a  heathen  god. 
He  was  a  disposer  of  men ;  he  was  polished,  luxurious,  and 
happy  at  their  cost.  He  lived  in  eminent  self-content,  as 
one  lying  on  soft  cloud  lapt  in  sunshine.  Nor  Jove  nor 
Apollo  cast  eye  upon  the  maids  of  earth  with  cooler  fire  of 
selection,  or  pursued  them  in  the  covert  with  more  sacred 
impunity.  And  he  enjoyed  his  reputation  for  virtue  as 
something  additional.  Stolen  fruits  are  said  to  be  sweet. 
Undeserved  rewards  are  very  exquisite. 

"The  best  of  it  was  that  Adrian  made  no  pretences. 
He  did  not  solicit  the  favourable  judgment  of  the  world. 
Nature  and  he  attempted  no  other  concealment  than  the 
ordinary  mask  men  wear.  And  yet  the  world  would  pro- 
claim him  moral  as  well  as  wise,  and  the  pleasing  converse 
every  way  of  his  disgraced  cousin  Austin.  Adrian  had  a 
logical  contempt  for  creatures  who  do  things  for  mere  show, 
as  losing,  he  said,  the  core  of  enjoyment  for  the  rind  of 
respectability.  The  world  might  find  itself  in  the  wrong ; 
it  would  find  him  the  same.  His  ambition,  within  the 
reserved  limits,  was  to  please  himself,  as  being  the  best 
judge  and  the  absolute  gainer.  Placed  on  Crusoe's  Island, 
his  first  cry  would  have  been  for  clean  linen ;  his  next  for 
the  bill  of  fare ;  and  then  for  that  Grand  Panorama  of  the 
Mistress  of  the  World  falling  to  wreck  under  the  barbarians, 

68 


on  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel 

which  had  been  the  spur  and  the  seal  to  his  mind ;  twitter- 
ing Horace  in  Roman  feast-attendant's  tunic,  twanging  his 
lyre,  might  charm  him  to  sleep,  careless  of  the  morrow, 
since  the  day  was  good. 

"  In  a  word,  Adrian  Harley  had  mastered  his  philosophy 
at  the  early  age  of  one-and-twenty.  Many  would  be  glad 
to  say  the  same  at  that  age  twice-told ;  they  carry  in  their 
breasts  a  burden  with  which  Adrian's  was  not  loaded. 
Mrs.  Doria  was  nearly  right  about  his  heart.  A  singular 
mishap  (at  his  birth,  possibly,  or  before  it)  had  unseated 
that  organ,  and  shaken  it  down  to  his  stomach,  where  it  was 
a  much  lighter,  nay,  an  inspiring,  weight,  and  encouraged 
him  merrily  onward.  Throned  in  that  region,  it  looked  on 
little  that  did  not  arrive  to  gratify  it.  Already  that  region 
was  a  trifle  prominent  in  the  person  of  the  Wise  Youth,  and 
carried,  as  it  were,  the  flag  of  his  philosophical  tenets  in 
front  of  him.  A  fat  Wise  Youth,  digesting  well ;  charming 
after  dinner,  with  men  or  with  women;  soft,  dimpled, 
succulent-looking  as  a  sucking-pig;  delightfully  sarcastic; 
perhaps  a  little  too  unscrupulous  in  his  moral  tone,  but 
that  his  moral  reputation  belied  him,  and  it  must  be  set 
down  to  generosity  of  disposition. 

"  Such  was  the  Adrian  Harley,  another  of  Sir  Austin's 
intellectual  favourites,  chosen  from  mankind  to  superintend 
the  education  of  his  son  at  Raynham.  Adrian  had  been 
destined  for  the  Church.  He  did  not  enter  into  orders. 
He  and  the  baronet  had  a  conference  together  one  day, 
and  from  that  time  Adrian  became  a  fixture  in  the  Abbey. 
His  father,  Mr.  Justice  Harley,  died  in  his  promising  son's 
College  term,  bequeathing  him  nothing  but  his  legal  com- 
plexion, and  Adrian  became  stipendiary  officer  in  his 
uncle's  household. 

"  The  Wise  Youth  spread  out  his  mind  to  the  system 
like  a  piece  of  blank  paper." 

69 


The  Times  on  Richard  Feverel 

Thus  Mr.  Meredith  shoots  at  Adrian  with  the  bow 
of  Apollo,  but  the  Wise  Youth  and  the  "  Pilgrim's 
Scrip,"  an  imaginary  work  of  the  baronet's,  are  none 
the  less  the  chorus  to  his  tragedy,  and  as  obtrusive 
as  any  chorus  of  the  Athenian  stage. 

One  other  word  remains — this  book  has  been 
charged  with  impurity,  and  tabooed,  as  we  hear,  in 
some  quarters  by  the  over-fastidious.  It  certainly 
touches  a  delicate  theme,  and  includes  some  equivocal 
situations,  but  of  impurity,  in  the  sense  of  any  cor- 
rupting tendency,  we  see  not  a  trace,  and  we  will  not 
endorse  the  imputation.  It  is  a  novel,  in  short,  which 
may  be  read  by  men  and  women  with  perfect  im- 
punity if  they  have  no  corrupt  imagination  of  their 
own  to  pervert  the  pure  purpose  of  the  author. 


VII 

JAMES   THOMSON 

ON 

THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL 

[This  article  appeared  in  Cope's  Tobacco  Plant,  vol.  ii.,  No.  no, 
May,  1879,  pp.  334-336,  and  is  a  review  of  the  one  volume  edition  of 
"  Richard  Feverel,"  published  by  Kegan  Paul  in  1878.  It  was  entitled 
"  An  Old  New  Book,"  and  signed  "  Sigvat."] 

WHEN  one  finds  a  novel  begin  thus,  he  knows  that 
he  has  to  do  with  a  thinker : — 

"  Some  years  ago  a  book  was  published  under  the  title 
of  'The  Pilgrim's  Scrip.'  It  consisted  of  a  selection  of 
original  aphorisms  by  an  anonymous  gentleman,  who  in 
this  bashful  manner  gave  a  bruised  heart  to  the  world. 

"He  made  no  pretension  to  novelty.  'Our  new 
thoughts  have  thrilled  dead  bosoms,'  he  wrote ;  by  which 
avowal  it  may  be  seen  that  youth  had  manifestly  gone  from 
him,  since  he  had  ceased  to  be  jealous  of  the  ancients. 
There  was  a  half-sigh  floating  through  his  pages  for  those 
days  of  intellectual  coxcombry,  when  ideas  come  to  us 
affecting  the  embraces  of  virgins,  and  swear  to  us  they  are 
ours  alone,  and  no  one  else  have  they  ever  visited  :  and  we 
believe  them. 

"  For  an  example  of  his  ideas  of  the  sex,  he  said,  '  I 
expect  that  Woman  will  be  the  last  thing  civilised  by 
Man.' " 

71 


James  Thomson 


The  Pilgrim  of  the  Scrip  is  the  father,  Sir  Austin 
Feverel,  Bart,  of  Raynham  Abbey,  in  a  certain 
western  county  folding  Thames.  He  had  a  wife  and 
a  friend  :  the  wife  a  poor  beauty,  too  far  beneath  her 
husband  in  mental  and  moral  stature ;  the  friend  a 
dangling  parasite,  a  sort  of  poet  of  sentiment  and 
satire.  After  five  years  of  marriage,  and  twelve  of 
friendship,  Sir  Austin  was  left  to  his  loneliness,  with 
nothing  to  ease  his  heart  of  love  upon  save  a  little 
baby  boy  in  a  cradle.  The  baby  is  Richard,  the 
subject  of  the  Ordeal,  which  is  the  system  of  educa- 
tion elaborated  by  the  father  so  incurably  wounded 
in  friendship  and  love  : — 

"  Richard  was  neither  to  go  to  school  nor  to  college. 
Sir  Austin  considered  that  the  schools  were  corrupt,  and 
maintained  that  young  lads  might  by  parental  vigilance  be 
kept  pretty  secure  from  the  Serpent  until  Eve  sided  with 
him :  a  period  that  might  be  deferred,  he  said." 

Again : — 

"Sir  Austin  wished  to  be  Providence  to  his  son.  If 
immeasurable  love  were  perfect  wisdom,  one  human  being 
might  almost  impersonate  Providence  to  another.  Alas ! 
love,  divine  as  it  is,  can  do  no  more  than  lighten  the  house 
it  inhabits — must  take  its  shape,  sometimes  intensify  its 
narrowness — can  spiritualise,  but  not  expel,  the  old  life- 
long lodgers  above-stairs  and  below." 

Whence  we  apprehend  that  the  infallible  System 
may  fail ;  that  in  being  the  Ordeal  of  young  Richard, 
it  is  passing  through  a  fiery  ordeal  itself,  from  which 

72 


on  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel 

it  can  scarcely  emerge  scatheless — from  which  it  may 
not  emerge  at  all,  being  utterly  consumed.  As  for 
the  faithless  wife  and  friend,  we  have  but  the  briefest 
glimpses  of  either ;  one  glimpse  of  both  together  is 
very  truly  sad  : — 

"  Further  behind  the  scenes  we  observe  Rizzio  and 
Mary  grown  older,  much  disenchanted :  she  discrowned, 
dishevelled — he  with  gouty  fingers  on  a  greasy  guitar.  The 
Diaper  Sandoe  of  promise  lends  his  pen  for  small  hires. 
His  fame  has  sunk ;  his  bodily  girth  has  sensibly  increased. 
What  he  can  do,  and  will  do,  is  still  his  theme ;  meantime 
the  juice  of  the  juniper  is  in  requisition,  and  it  seems  those 
small  hires  cannot  be  performed  without  it." 

Rizzio,  if  you  like,  Mr.  Meredith,  though  surely 
a  very  mean  one ;  but  wherefore  this  poor-spirited, 
weak-minded,  soft-headed  creature,  Mary  ?  Mary, 
one  of  those  few  supreme  women  like  Helen  and 
Cleopatra,  each  to  the  common  of  her  sex  "as  a 
royal  Bengal  tigress  to  a  household  cat ; "  most 
beautiful,  most  terrible,  haughty,  and  splendid  and 
indomitable,  fatal  and  fated ;  transcending  all  our 
petty  moral  codes,  triumphing  disastrously  in  life 
and  death,  compelling  reluctant  History  to  bow  down 
and  adore. 

Let  us  see  how  our  author  delineates  a  character, 
before  setting  it  to  act  for  itself.  Here  is  Richard's 
cousin  and  tutor  :— 

"  The  principal  characteristic  of  Adrian  Harley  was  his 
sagacity.  He  was  essentially  the  wise  youth,  both  in 
counsel  and  in  action.  '  In  action,'  the  '  Pilgrim's  Scrip ' 

73 


James  Thomson 


observes, '  Wisdom  goes  by  majorities.'  *  Adrian  had  an 
instinct  for  the  majorities,  and  as  the  world  invariably 
found  him  enlisted  in  its  ranks,  his  appellation  of  wise 
youth  was  acquiesced  in  without  irony. 

"  The  wise  youth,  then,  had  the  world  with  him,  but  no 
friends.  Nor  did  he  wish  for  those  troublesome  appen- 
dages of  success.  He  caused  himself  to  be  required  by 
people  who  could  serve  him ;  feared  by  such  as  could 
injure.  Not  that  he  went  out  of  the  way  to  secure  his  end, 
or  risked  the  expense  of  a  plot.  He  did  the  work  as  easily 
as  he  ate  his  daily  bread.  Adrian  was  an  epicurean  :  one 
whom  Epicurus  would  have  scourged  out  of  his  garden, 
certainly ;  an  epicurean  of  our  modern  notions.  To  satisfy 
his  appetites  without  rashly  staking  his  character,  was  the 
wise  youth's  problem  for  life.  He  had  no  intimates  except 
Gibbon  and  Horace,  and  the  society  of  these  fine  aristocrats 
of  literature  helped  him  to  accept  humanity  as  it  had  been, 
and  was;  a  supreme  ironic  procession,  with  laughter  of 
gods  in  the  background.  Why  not  laughter  of  mortals 
also  ?  Adrian  had  his  laugh  in  his  comfortable  corner.  He 
possessed  peculiar  attributes  of  a  heathen  god.  He  was  a 
disposer  of  men  :  he  was  polished,  luxurious,  and  happy — 
at  their  cost.  He  lived  in  eminent  self-content,  as  one 
lying  on  soft  cloud,  lapt  in  sunshine.  Nor  Jove,  nor 
Apollo,  cast  eye  upon  the  maids  of  earth  with  cooler  fire  of 
selection,  or  pursued  them  in  the  covert  with  more  sacred 

*  Compare  Leopardi,  "  Pensieri,"  V.  :  "  In  things  occult  the 
minority  always  sees  better ;  in  plain  things,  the  majority.  It  is 
absurd  to  adduce  what  is  called  the  consensus  of  the  multitude  [Reid's 
"  Common  Sense"]  in  metaphysical  questions  ;  of  which  consensus  no 
account  is  taken  in  physical  matters,  subject  to  the  senses ;  as,  for 
example,  in  the  question  of  the  motion  of  the  earth,  and  in  a  thousand 
others.  And,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  rash,  dangerous,  and  in  the  long 
run  useless,  to  oppose  the  opinion  of  the  majority  in  civil  affairs." 
-J-  T, 

74 


on  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel 

impunity.  And  he  enjoyed  his  reputation  for  virtue  as 
something  additional.  Stolen  fruits  are  said  to  be  sweet ; 
undeserved  rewards  are  exquisite. 

"  The  best  of  it  was,  that  Adrian  made  no  pretences. 
He  did  not  solicit  the  favourable  judgment  of  the  world. 
Nature  and  he  attempted  no  other  concealment  than  the 
ordinary  mask  men  wear.  And  yet  the  world  would  pro- 
claim him  moral,  as  well  as  wise. 

"  In  a  word,  Adrian  Harley  had  mastered  his  philosophy 
at  the  early  age  of  one-and-twenty.  Many  would  be  glad 
to  say  the  same  at  that  age  twice  told ;  they  carry  in  their 
breasts  a  burden  with  which  Adrian's  was  not  loaded.  A 
singular  mishap  (at  his  birth,  possibly,  or  before  it)  had 
unseated  his  heart,  and  shaken  it  down  to  his  stomach, 
where  it  was  a  much  lighter,  nay,  an  inspiring,  weight,  and 
encouraged  him  merrily  onward.  Throned  there  it  looked 
on  little  -that  did  not  arrive  to  gratify  it.  Already  that 
region  was  a  trifle  prominent  in  the  person  of  the  wise 
youth,  and  carried,  as  it  were,  the  flag  of  his  philosophical 
tenets  in  front  of  him.  He  was  charming,  after  dinner, 
with  men  or  with  women ;  delightfully  sarcastic ;  perhaps 
a  little  unscrupulous  in  his  moral  tone,  but  that  his  moral 
reputation  belied  him,  and  it  must  be  set  down  to  gene- 
rosity of  disposition." 

This  from  Chapter  I.,  let  us  move  on  to  II. 
and  III. 

"  October  shone  royally  on  Richard's  fourteenth  birth- 
day. The  brown  beech  woods  and  golden  birches  glowed 
to  a  brilliant  sun.  Banks  of  moveless  cloud  hung  about 
the  horizon,  mounded  to  the  west,  where  slept  the  wind. 
Promise  of  a  great  day  for  Raynham,  as  it  proved  to  be, 
though  not  in  the  manner  marked  out." 

For  the  hero  of  the  festival  had  been  requested 
75 


James  Thomson 


by  his  father  to  submit  to  medical  examination,  like 
a  boor  enlisting  for  a  soldier,  and  with  a  reluctant 
friend  of  his  own  age  was  flying  as  though  he  would 
have  flown  from  the  shameful  thought  of  what  had 
been  asked  of  him.  His  friend  said  his  sentiments 
were  those  of  a  girl ;  for  which  offensive  remark 
friend  was  called  a  fool  when  he  fired  badly,  they 
having  borrowed  a  couple  of  guns  at  the  bailiff's 
farm.  Hence  a  fight,  in  which  poor  friend's  nose  was 
damaged ;  then  reconciliation,  Richard,  having  the 
better  of  it,  withdrawing  the  "  fool."  Unconsciously 
they  got  poaching  on  the  demesne  of  the  notorious 
free-trade  Farmer  Blaize,  who  loved  not  Feverels ; 
and,  after  threats  and  defiance,  soundly  horsewhipped 
the  youngsters.  Richard  goes  on  in  a  fever  ;  with 
a  horrible  sense  of  shame,  self-loathing,  universal 
hatred,  impotent  vengeance,  as  if  his  spirit  were 
steeped  in  abysmal  blackness  ;  meditating  a  thousand 
schemes  of  sweeping  and  consummate  revenge. 
Something  terrible  must  be  done  to  wipe  out  the 
indignity ;  he  would  kill  the  farmer's  cattle,  he 
would  kill  the  farmer ;  would  make  him  fight  with 
powder  and  ball,  and  shoot  the  brawny  coward 
dead. — Truly  the  System  seems  in  a  rather  bad  way 
already. 

The  boys  went  on  and  on  across  country ;  the 
friend,  less  heroic,  becoming  more  and  more  intensely 
conscious  of  weariness  and  famine. 

"  They  were  a  long  way  down  the  valley,  in  a  country  of 
sour  pools,  yellow  brooks,  rank  pasturage,  desolate  heath. 
Solitary  cows  were  seen ;  the  smoke  of  a  mud-cottage ; 

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on  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel 

a  cart  filled  with  peat;  a  donkey  grazing  at  leisure, 
oblivious  of  an  unkind  world;  geese  by  a  horse-pond, 
gabbling  as  in  the  first  loneliness  of  creation  ;l  uncooked 
things  that  a  famishing  boy  cannot  possibly  care  for,  and 
must  despise." 

At  length,  when  friend  in  despair  cried  "  Tell  us 
where  you're  going  to  stop,"  Richard  said  "  There !  " 
and  dropped  down  on  a  withered  bank  ;  and  the 
poor  friend,  crushed  as  by  remorseless  fate,  had  to 
sink  beside  him.  Thus  are  we  brought  to  the  grand 
duet  to  the  glory  of  Divine  Tobacco,  chanted  by  the 
Travelling  Tinker  and  the  Ploughman  out  of  work, 
which,  with  its  accompaniment,  must  be  here  set  out 
in  full  :— 

"  Now,  the  chance  that  works  for  certain  purposes  sent 
a  smart  shower  from  the  sinking  sun,  and  the  wet  sent  two 
strangers  for  shelter  in  the  lane  behind  the  hedge  where  the 
boys  reclined.  One  was  a  travelling  tinker,  who  lit  a  pipe 
and  spread  a  tawny  umbrella.  The  other  was  a  burly 
young  countryman,  pipeless  and  tentless.  They  saluted 
with  a  nod,  and  began  recounting  for  each  other's  benefit 
the  day-long  doings  of  the  weather,  as  it  had  affected  their 
individual  experience,  and  followed  their  prophecies.  Both 
had  anticipated  and  foretold  a  bit  of  rain  before  night,  and 
therefore  both  welcomed  the  rain  with  satisfaction.  A 
monotonous  betweenwhiles  kind  of  talk  they  kept  droning, 
in  harmony  with  the  still  hum  of  the  air.  From  the  weather 
theme  they  fell  upon  [i.e.  rose  to]  the  blessings  of  Tobacco ; 
how  it  was  the  poor  man's  friend,  his  company,  his  con- 
solation, his  comfort,  his  refuge  at  night,  his  first  thought 
in  the  morning. 

77 


James  Thomson 


" '  Better  than  a  wife  ! '  chuckled  the  tinker.  '  No 
curtain-lecturin'  with  a  pipe.  Your  pipe  a'n't  a  shrew.' 

" '  That  be  it ! '  the  other  chimed  in.  '  Your  pipe  doan't 
mak'  ye  out  wi'  all  the  cash  Saturday  eveninY 

" '  Take  one,'  said  the  tinker  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
moment,  handing  a  grimy  short  clay.  Speed-the-Plough 
filled  from  the  tinker's  pouch,  and  continued  his  praises. 

" c  Penny  a  day,  and  there  y'are,  primed !  Better  than 
a  wife?  Ha,  ha!' 

" '  And  you  can  get  rid  of  it,  if  ye  wants  for  to,  and 
when  ye  wants,'  added  the  tinker. 

" '  So  ye  can  ! '  Speed-the-Plough  took  him  up,  '  So  ye 
can  !  And  ye  doan't  want  for  to.  Leastways,  t'other  case. 
I  means  pipe.' 

"'And,'  continued  the  tinker,  comprehending  him 
perfectly,  '  it  don't  bring  repentance  after  it.' 

" '  Not  no  how,  master,  it  doan't !  And ' — Speed-the- 
Plough  cocked  his  eye — '  it  doan't  eat  up  half  the  victuals, 
your  pipe  doan't.' 

"  Here  the  honest  yeoman  gesticulated  his  keen  sense 
of  a  clincher,  which  the  tinker  acknowledged ;  and  having, 
so  to  speak,  sealed  up  the  subject  by  saying  the  best  thing 
that  could  be  said,  the  two  smoked  for  some  time  in  silence 
to  the  drip  and  patter  of  the  shower. 

"Ripton  [Richard's  friend]  solaced  his  wretchedness 
by  watching  them  through  the  briar  hedge.  He  saw 
the  tinker  stroking  a  white  cat,  and  appealing  to  her, 
every  now  and  then,  as  his  missus,  for  an  opinion  or 
a  confirmation;  and  he  thought  that  a  curious  sight. 
Speed-the-Plough  was  stretched  at  full  length,  with  his 
boots  in  the  rain,  and  his  head  amidst  the  tinker's  pots, 
smoking  profoundly  contemplative.  The  minutes  seemed 
to  be  taken  up  alternately  by  the  grey  puffs  from  their 
mouths. 

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on  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel 

"  It  was  the  tinker  who  renewed  the  colloquy.  Said  he, 
'  Times  is  bad  ! ' 

"  His  companion  assented,  '  Sure-ly  ! ' 

" '  But  it  somehow  comes  round  right/  resumed  the 
tinker.  '  Why,  look  here.  Where's  the  good  o'  moping  ? 
I  sees  it  all  come  round  right  and  tight.  Now,  I  travels 
about.  I've  got  my  beat.  'Casion  calls  me  t'other  day  to 
Newcastle  ! — Eh  ? ' 

" '  Coals  ! '  ejaculated  Speed-the-Plough,  sonorously. 

" '  Coals  ! '  echoed  the  tinker.  '  You  ask  what  I  goes 
there  for,  mayhap  ?  Never  you  mind.  One  sees  a  most  o' 
life  in  my  trade.  Not  for  coals  it  isn't.  And  I  don't  carry 
'em  there,  neither.  Anyhow,  I  comes  back.  London's  my 
mark.  Says  I,  I'll  see  a  bit  o'  the  sea,  and  steps  aboard 
a  collier.  We  were  as  nigh  wrecked  as  the  prophet  Paul.' 

"  '  A — who's  him  ? '  the  other  wished  to  know. 

"  '  Read  your  Bible,'  said  the  tinker.  '  We  pitched  and 
tossed — 'taint  that  game  at  sea,  'tis  on  land,  I  can  tell  ye  ! 
I  thinks,  down  we're  going. — Say  your  prayers,  Bob  Tiles  ! 
That  was  a  night,  to  be  sure  !  But  God's  above  the  devil, 
and  here  I  am,  ye  see.' 

"Speed-the-Plough  lurched  round  on  his  elbow  and 
regarded  him  indifferently.  '  D'ye  call  that  doctrin'  ?  He 
bean't  al'ays,  or  I  shoo'n't  be  scrapin'  my  heels  wi'  nothin' 
to  do,  and  what's  worse,  nothin'  to  eat.  Why,  look  here. 
Luck's  luck,  and  bad  luck's  the  con-trary.  Varmer  Bollop, 
t'other  day,  has  's  rick  burnt  down.  Next  night  his  gran'ry's 
burnt.  What  do  he  tak'  and  go  and  do?  He  takes  and 
goes  and  hangs  unsel',  and  turns  us  out  of  his  employ. 
God  warn't  above  the  devil  then,  I  thinks,  or  I  can't  make 
out  the  reckonin'.' 

"  The  tinker  cleared  his  throat,  and  said  it  was  a  bad 
case. 

" '  And  a  darn'd  bad   case.    I'll  tak'  my  oath  on't ! ' 

79 


James  Thomson 


cried  Speed-the-Plough.  '  Well,  look  heer.  Here's  another 
darn'd  bad  case.  I  threshed  for  Varmer  Blaize — Blaize  o' 
Beltharpe — afore  I  goes  to  Varmer  Bollop.  Varmer  Blaize 
misses  pilkins.  He  swears  our  chaps  steals  pilkins. 
'Twarn't  me  steals  'em.  What  do  he  tak'  and  go  and  do  ? 
He  takes  and  turns  us  off,  me  and  another,  neck  and  crop, 
we  scuffle  about  and  starve,  for  all  he  keers.  God  warn't 
above  the  devil  then,  I  thinks.  Not  nohow,  as  I  can  see  ! ' 

"  The  tinker  shook  his  head,  and  said,  that  was  a  bad 
case  also. 

"'And  you  can't  mend  it,'  added  Speed-the-Plough. 
'  It's  bad,  and  there  it  be.  But  I'll  tell  ye  what,  master. 
Bad  wants  payin'  for.'  He  nodded  and  winked  mysteriously. 
'  Bad  has  its  wages  as  well  as  honest  work,  I'm  thinkin'. 
Varmer  Bollop  I  don't  owe  no  grudge  to ;  Varmer  Blaize  I 
do.  And  I  shud  like  to  stick  a  Lucifer  in  his  rick  some  dry 
windy  night.'  Speed-the-Plough  screwed  up  an  eye  villain- 
ously. 'He  wants  hittin'  in  the  wind, — jest  where  the 
pocket  is,  master,  do  Varmer  Blaize,  and  he'll  cry  out 
O  Lor' !  Varmer  Blaize  will.  You  won't  get  the  better  o' 
Varmer  Blaize  by  no  means,  as  I  makes  out,  if  you  doan't 
hit  into  him  jest  there.' 

"  The  tinker  sent  a  rapid  succession  of  white  clouds 
from  his  mouth,  and  said  that  would  be  taking  the  devil's 
side  of  a  bad  case.  Speed-the-Plough  observed  energetically 
that,  if  Farmer  Blaize  was  on  the  other,  he  should  be  on 
that  side. 

"  There  was  a  young  gentleman  close  by  who  thought 
with  him." 

After  this  readers  will  scarcely  be  surprised  to 
learn  that  that  very  night  Farmer  Blaize's  rick  and 
stable  went  to  blazes,  and  that  the  hero  and  his 
friend,  as  well  as  the  honest  rustic,  were  concerned 

80 


on  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel 

in  the  arson.  What  came  of  it  and  what  befell  the 
hero  afterwards,  voyaging  the  wild  Sea  of  Life  in  the 
ironclad  "  System";  and  how  the  poor  "System"  itself 
fared,  buffeted  by  the  winds  and  waves  of  human 
nature  and  worldly  circumstance;  all  this  I  com- 
mend the  good  and  thoughtful  smoker  to  read  and 
ponder  for  himself  in  the  book  itself,  one  of  the  most 
brilliant  and  daring  of  our  generation.  I  may  just 
hint  that  George  Meredith  appears  to  have  about  as 
much  esteem  for  the  "  System  "  as  Carlyle  for  Logic- 
spectacles  and  paper  Constitutions.  For  he,  too,  is 
a  spiritual  Idealist  who  fights  resolutely  for  the 
veracious  Real ;  he  affirms  himself  as  emphatically 
as  Fielding,  no  mere  fiction-monger,  but  an  authentic 
historian  of  genuine  Nature,  infinitely  more  noble 
and  beautiful  in  her  honest  plainness  than  when 
tricked  out  and  disguised  in  the  most  dazzling  gauds 
of  sentimental  and  other  artificialities.  And  the 
purport  of  this  "  History  of  Father  and  Son  "  may 
be  concisely  stated  in  a  sentence  I  have  read  some- 
where :  "  A  Creed  or  System  is  a  strait-waistcoat 
for  Nature  ;  and  if  you  will  persist  in  forcing  it  upon 
her,  you  will  soon  experience  that  the  great  Titaness 
not  only  flings  it  off  with  wrathful  disdain,  but  makes 
yourself  fit  for  a  strait-waistcoat  in  recompense  for 
your  trouble." 

One  of  the  unfair  and  inferior  sex  has  this  to  give 
him  evil  courage  in  writing  for  the  Tobacco  Plant ', 
that  he  will  be  mainly  read  by  mere  men  like  him- 
self. But  should  any  of  the  fair  and  superior  sex 
deign  a  casual  glance  at  the  foregoing  excerpts,  and 

81  G 


James  Thomson 


protest  against  the  male  arrogance  of  that  "  Woman 
will  be  the  last  thing  civilised  by  Man  "  ;  and  against 
the  characteristic  selfishness  and  injustice  of  that 
preference,  wherein  Tinker  and  Ploughman  so  cordi- 
ally agree,  of  a  cheap  pipe  to  a  dear  wife  :  allow  me, 
by  way  of  propitiation,  to  inform  these  "  Fair  Ladies 
in  Revolt"  (of  whom  our  poet  has  written  an  ex- 
quisitely subtle  and  chivalrous  ballad),  that  a  certain 
little  Lucy,  most  divinely  human,  glows  glorious  in 
the  book  ;  that  between  her  and  Richard  there  is 
some  of  the  most  beautiful,  simple,  warm,  frank  love- 
making  ever  met  with  in  drama  or  romance  ;  and 
that  there  is  a  great  deal  of  the  remarkable  sayings 
and  doings  of  a  certain  Mrs.  Berry,  their  humble 
friend,  one  of  the  delightfullest  bunches  of  black  satin 
that  ever  rustled  through  printed  pages. 

Having  thus,  I  hope,  made  peace  for  my  author 
and  myself  with  the  ladies,  I  fall  back  upon  my  own 
sex  ;  for  George  Meredith  is  distinctly  rather  a  man's 
than  a  woman's  writer.  He  has  the  broad,  jolly 
humour,  full-blooded  with  beef  and  beer,  of  great 
Fielding,  as  well  as  his  swift,  keen  insight ;  he  has 
the  quaint  fantastic  ironical  humour  of  the  poet  and 
scholar  and  thinker — freakish  touches  of  Sterne  and 
Jean  Paul  and  Carlyle  and  his  own  father-in-law 
(Peacock,  of  "  Nightmare  Abbey,"  "  Gryll  Grange," 
"  Headlong  Hall,"  and  other  enjoyable  sojourning 
places,  who  had  Shelley  for  a  friend).  In  brief,  he  is 
humoristic  and  ironical ;  and  women  in  general  care 
for  no  humour  save  of  the  nursery,  distrust  and  dis- 
like all  irony  except  in  talking  with  and  about  one 

82 


on  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel 

another.  But  men  will  savour  in  that  dialogue  of 
Tinker  and  Ploughman  the  fine  open-air  wayside 
relish  in  which  our  robust  old  plays  and  novels  are 
so  rich,  in  which  most  of  our  modern  are  so  poor. 
George  Borrow,  George  Eliot,  George  Meredith,  can 
reproduce  for  us  this  pithy,  vulgar  talk,  succulent 
with  honest  nature  and  bookless  mother  wit ;  but 
how  many  else  can  furnish  it  unadulterated  ?  I  have 
named  our  most  popular,  and  justly  popular,  great 
novelist  along  with  him  who  is  one  of  the  least 
popular ;  and  to  my  mind  he  is  throned  not  less 
eminent  than  she  ;  and  if  certain  jewels  in  her  crown 
are  lacking  in  his,  he  has  others  not  less  precious 
that  are  wanting  in  hers. 

As  his  works  are  still  so  little  known,  while  so 
worthy  of  being  known  to  all  competent  readers,  it 
may  be  well  to  take  the  opportunity  of  just  mention- 
ing them  here.  "  Men  of  the  Time  "  tells  us  that  he 
was  born  in  Hampshire  about  1828,  was  educated 
partly  in  Germany,  began  with  the  law  but  abandoned 
it  for  literature.  In  1851  he  published  a  slim  volume 
of  poems,  chiefly  lyrical,  some  of  them  very  fine, 
dedicated  to  his  father-in-law.  In  1855,  "The  Shaving 
of  Shagpat,  an  Arabian  Entertainment "  ;  humorous, 
sententious,  vividly  picturesque.  In  1857,  "Farina, 
a  Legend  of  Cologne,"  a  slighter  piece  of  phantastic- 
poetic  pleasantry.  In  1859,  this  "  Richard  Feverel," 
in  three  vols. ;  for  the  work  is  really  twenty  years 
old,  though  the  new  edition  gives  no  notice  of  the 
preceding,  just  as  its  title-page  mentions  no  other 
works  by  the  same  author.  In  1 86 1,  "  Evan 

83 


James  Thomson 


Harrington,"  which  first  appeared  in  Once  a  Week. 
In  1862,  "Modern  Love  and  Poems  of  the  English 
Roadside,  with  Poems  and  Ballads,"  affectionately 
inscribed  to  Captain  Maxse,  R.N.  ;  whereof  little 
will  soon  die.  "  Modern  Love "  is  a  series  of 
Rembrandt  etchings,  for  sombre  intensity  and  con- 
cision, summed  up  in  the  closing  quatrain  : — 

"  In  tragic  hints  here  see  what  evermore 

Moves  dark  as  yonder  midnight  ocean's  force, 
Thundering  like  ramping  hosts  of  warrior  horse, 
To  throw  that  faint  thin  line  upon  the  shore  ! " 

The  Roadside  Philosophers — "Juggling  Jerry,"  the 
"  Old  Chartist,"  the  "  Beggar  "  soliloquising,  and  the 
"  Patriotic  Engineer,"  with  "  Grandfather  Bridgeman  " 
— are  as  genial  as  harvest  sunshine.  "Cassandra," 
"  Margaret's  Bridal  Eve,"  "The  Head  of  Bran,"  "By 
Morning  Twilight,"  " Shemselnihar,"  and  the  "Ode 
to  the  Spirit  of  Earth  in  Autumn,"  are  full  of  noble 
power  and  passion.  In  1864  and  1866,  his  master- 
pieces, "  Emilia  in  England,"  and  its  sequel,  "  Vittoria," 
the  latter  from  the  Fortnightly  Review  ;  both,  despite 
defects  of  construction  in  "  Vittoria,"  which  celebrates 
the  struggle  of  Northern  Italy  against  Austria,  not  to 
be  successful  until  many  years  later,  challenging  com- 
parison with  the  very  greatest  achievements  in  their 
kind.  Between  these,  in  1865,  "Rhoda  Fleming." 
In  1871,  "Adventures  of  Harry  Richmond,"  first  in 
Cornhill.  In  1876,  from  the  Fortnightly,  "Beau- 
champ's  Career,"  to  which  attention  was  called  in  our 
"  Smoke  Room  Table."  Add  a  couple  of  novelettes 

84 


on  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel 

in  the  New  Quarterly  Magazine,  and  some  poems, 
not  yet  collected,  in  the  Fortnightly,  etc.,  with  a  few 
critiques,  and  we  have  a  pretty  complete  list  of  the 
manifest  results  of  about  thirty  years'  high-minded 
and  miserably  appreciated  labour. 

He  may  be  termed,  accurately  enough  for  a  brief 
indication,  the  Robert  Browning  of  our  novelists ; 
and  his  day  is  bound  to  come,  as  Browning's  at 
length  has  come.  The  flaccid  and  feeble  folk,  who 
want  literature  and  art  that  can  be  inhaled  as  idly 
as  the  perfume  of  a  flower,  must  naturally  shrink 
from  two  such  earnestly  strenuous  spirits,  swifter 
than  eagles,  stronger  than  lions,  in  whom,  to  use  the 
magnificent  and  true  language  of  Coleridge  concern- 
ing Shakespeare,  "The  intellectual  power  and  the 
creative  energy  wrestle  as  in  a  war-embrace."  But 
men  who  have  lived  and  observed  and  pondered,  who 
love  intellect  and  genius  and  genuine  passion,  who 
have  eyes  and  ears  open  to  the  mysterious  miracles 
of  nature  and  art,  who  flinch  not  from  keenest  insight 
into  the  world  and  life,  who  are  wont  to  probe  and 
analyse  with  patient  subtlety  the  intricate  social  and 
personal  problems  of  our  complex  quasi-civilisation, 
who  look  not  to  mere  plot  as  the  be-all  and  end-all 
of  a  novel  reflecting  human  character  and  life,  who 
willingly  dispense  with  the  childish  sugar-plums  of 
so-called  poetical  justice  which  they  never  find  dis- 
pensed in  the  grown-up  work-o'-day  world,  who  can 
respond  with  thought  to  thought,  and  passion  to 
passion,  and  imagination  to  imagination ;  and,  lastly, 
who  can  appreciate  a  style  vital  and  plastic  as  the 

85 


James  Thomson  on  Richard  Feverel 

ever-evolving  living  world  it  depicts,  equal  to  all 
emergencies,  which  can  revel  with  clowns  and  fence 
with  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen,  yet  rise  to  all  grandeurs 
of  Nature  and  Destiny  and  the  human  soul  in  fieriest 
passion  and  action:  such  men,  who  cannot  abound 
anywhere,  but  who  should  be  less  rare  among  medita- 
tive smokers  than  in  the  rest  of  the  community,  will 
find  a  royal  treasure-house  of  delight  and  instruction 
and  suggestion  in  the  works  of  George  Meredith. 


86 


EVAN   HARRINGTON 


VIII 

THE  SATURDAY  REVIEW 

ON 

EVAN   HARRINGTON 

[From  The  Saturday  Review^  vol.  xi.,  No.  273,  January  19,  1861, 
pp.  76-77.] 

WHO  would  have  thought  that  a  really  good  novel 
could  have  been  written  on  so  very  unpromising  a 
subject  as  the  history  of  a  tailor  who  was  mistaken 
for  a  gentleman  ?  "  Evan  Harrington "  is  a  sur- 
prisingly good  novel ;  for  we  are  almost  incredulous 
of  our  own  admiration  until  the  story  has  fairly 
carried  us  away  with  it,  and  then  we  own  that  there 
can  be  no  doubt  about  its  power  to  interest  us.  At 
first,  it  seems  like  trifling  with  readers  that  a  novelist 
should  take  for  his  theme  a  subject  so  exactly  appro- 
priate to  a  farce.  We  resign  ourselves  to  a  pleasant 
writer,  and  say  that  if  Mr.  Meredith  chooses  to  write 
such  a  book  we  like  to  read  it,  but  that  it  is  a  pity 
he  is  not  working  a  more  promising  field.  When 
we  have  finished,  we  look  back  as  on  a  story  new  in 
conception,  new  in  the  study  of  character,  fresh, 
odd,  a  little  extravagant,  but  noble  and  original. 
Hackneyed  novel  readers  must  own  that  here  they 

89 


The  Saturday  Review 


have  the  luxury  of  a  novelty  offered  them.  The 
tailor  is  a  gentleman  by  education,  in  thought,  and 
in  every  act.  Half  against  his  will  he  is  taken  for 
a  member  of  a  well-known  family  bearing  the  same 
name,  and  he  is  welcomed  to  the  house  of  a  baronet, 
and  to  the  heart  of  the  baronet's  daughter.  The 
young  people  love  each  other,  and  the  tailor  wins 
the  lady  in  the  character  of  a  gentleman.  Rose's 
maid  kindly  informs  him  how  her  young  mistress 
shuddered  when  she  repeated  to  herself  the  awful 
word  "snip,"  which  some  malignant  who  suspected 
the  truth  had  suggested  with  respect  to  her  lover. 
But  whenever  honesty  distinctly  bids  him  to  own  he 
is  a  tailor,  he  does  so ;  and  after  he  has  been  led  by 
passion  to  avow  his  love  he  summons  up  all  his 
courage,  and  tells  Rose  that  he  is  the  snip  she 
detests.  She  is  all  frankness,  loyalty,  and  enthusiasm, 
vows  she  will  never  desert  him,  goes  straight  to  her 
father  and  mother  and  avows  to  them  that  a  tailor 
is  to  be  their  son-in-law.  It  is  hard  to  fancy  the 
situation  in  real  life,  but  no  one  can  say  that  it  is 
impossible ;  and  directly  we  have  become  familiarized 
with  the  thought,  an  author  who  seizes  on  it  has  a 
vast  range  of  feeling  to  work  upon  in  order  to  win 
our  attention.  Mr.  Meredith  has  made  the  discovery 
that  if  the  farcical  side  of  life  is  taken  seriously,  it  is 
full  of  fine  tragedy  and  comedy.  This  may  almost 
be  called  a  discovery,  for  even  if  every  one  would 
have  previously  acknowledged  its  truth,  no  one  had 
made  a  romance  out  of  his  perception  of  it.  A  shy 
honest  man  is  contrasted  and  coupled  with  a  frank, 

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dashing,  honest  girl,  and  they  are  separated  by 
tailordom.  There  is  no  end  to  the  struggles  of 
passion  and  principle  that  this  opening  may  not 
lead  to.  Very  judiciously,  Mr.  Meredith  makes  the 
tailor's  love  triumphant  early  in  the  story.  He  is 
not  kept  low  too  long.  He  is  soon  ennobled  by  the 
love  bestowed  on  him  by  a  heroine  who  deserves  to 
be  a  heroine.  The  mental  difficulties  and  social 
struggles  of  a  couple  advanced  thus  far  give  much 
more  room  for  subtle  delineation  and  for  highly- 
strung  feeling  than  if  the  tailor  were  only  emancipated 
at  the  end  of  the  story  from  his  goose  and  cabbage. 
"  Evan  Harrington  "  has  the  great  merit  of  increasing 
as  it  goes  on  in  interest.  The  tailor  becomes  nobler 
and  better.  The  heroine  passes  through  her  little 
troubles  in  a  way  that  makes  us  sometimes  pity  her 
and  sometimes  admire  her.  The  story  has,  of  course, 
its  defects.  It  pays  the  penalty  of  originality. 
Tailordom  in  the  clouds  is  a  novelty ;  but  we  have 
a  little  too  much  of  tailordom  in  the  clouds.  A 
novelty  must  in  these  latter  days  of  writing  be 
something  special,  singular,  and  probably  minute. 
If  the  writer  passes  into  the  general  current  of  life, 
he  has  been  anticipated.  This  tailor-gentleman  is 
something  out  of  the  way,  and  all  society  is  made 
to  sweep  rather  exclusively  round  the  one  central 
figure  of  an  ambiguous  snip.  This  is  the  inevitable 
drawback  the  author  has  had  to  pay  for  the  choice 
of  his  subject,  and  in  spite  of  the  drawback  his  choice 
has  turned  out  wonderfully  successful. 

There  are  three  things  which  a  writer  who  wants 
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to  produce  a  good  novel  must  hit  upon.  He  brings 
with  him,  we  will  suppose,  a  fine  style  and  an 
abundance  of  philosophical  remarks,  which  he  can 
pour  over  any  subject.  But  in  the  subject  he  selects 
he  must  offer  us,  first,  a  good  plot ;  secondly,  one  or 
more  striking,  new,  and  fully  described  chief  cha- 
racters ;  and  thirdly,  a  good  group  of  those  minor 
personages  who  are  the  Gibeonites  of  the  leading 
performers,  and  draw  water  and  hew  wood  as  they 
are  wanted.  Mr.  Meredith  has  got  a  new  plot,  and 
a  good  hero  and  heroine,  who  are,  as  it  were,  part  of 
the  plot ;  for  the  whole  story  turns  on  the  feelings 
of  a  particular  sort  of  tailor  and  a  particular  sort  of 
tailor's  betrothed.  And  he  has  also  got  a  prominent 
character  to  help  the  plot  on,  and  to  put  the  hero 
and  heroine  in  and  out  of  their  troubles ;  and  this 
prominent  character  is  so  well  drawn  as  to  raise  Mr. 
Meredith  to  a  very  considerable  height  in  the  list  of 
novel-writers.  This  person  is  a  sister  of  the  tailor, 
and  by  a  skilful  manoeuvre  she  has  managed  to 
marry  a  penniless  Portuguese  Count.  The  one  dream 
of  the  Countess's  life  is  to  marry  her  brother  to  an 
heiress,  and  her  greatest  personal  ambition  is  to 
conceal  for  ever  that  she  is  the  daughter  and  sister 
of  a  tailor.  She  goes  with  the  tailor-hero  to  the 
Baronet's  house,  and  there  spins  her  plots,  brings  all 
the  men  to  her  feet,  quarrels  with  the  women,  and  so 
manages  by  a  mixture  of  flattery,  courting,  lies,  and 
threats,  that  even  old  acquaintances  who  knew  her 
in  her  unfledged  days  dare  not  say  to  each  other 
that  this  magnificent  and  fascinating  Countess  de 

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on  Evan  Harrington 


Saldar  de  Sancorvo  is  the  tailor's  daughter  they  once 
flirted  with.  The  one  inherent  fault  of  the  book 
naturally  casts  its  shade  over  the  Countess.  All 
this  struggle  to  avoid  the  exposure  of  tailordom  is 
petty  and  monotonous  in  itself,  and  is  only  raised  by 
the  noble  traits  of  character  it  awakens  in  Rose  and 
her  snip.  The  Countess  is  amusing  from  the  first, 
but  the  amusement  she  provides  us  with  is  that  of  a 
good  farce,  until  she  begins  to  borrow  a  dignity  from 
the  elevation  of  the  persons  whose  fortunes  she  affects. 
But  if  we  take  her  as  she  is  meant  to  be — if  we  once 
accept  this  horror  of  tailordom  as  capable  of  awaken- 
ing profound  emotions — she  is  admirable.  There  are 
touches  in  her  portrait  that  are  masterly.  She  mixes 
up  with  her  detestably  mean  stratagems  a  strange 
recognition  of  the  claims  of  Providence  which  is 
irresistibly  comic ;  and  the  affectation  of  foreign 
habits,  manners,  and  opinions  which  she  puts  before 
her  as  a  shield  and  an  attraction  is  so  natural  that 
it  seems  as  if  we  must  have  been  reading  about  a 
real  person.  If  any  one  wants  to  gain  a  notion  of 
the  trouble  and  contrivance  it  takes  to  write  a  good 
novel,  let  him  ask  himself  how  far  he  would  be 
capable  of  devising  a  series  of  stratagems  by  which 
a  foreigneering  Countess  should  bring  together  or 
separate  a  tailor  and  a  young  lady. 

The  minor  characters  belong  to  a  lower  walk  of 
art.  They  are  not  bad  or  good.  Many  men  and 
women  could  have  struck  them  off;  and  not  a  few 
of  them  are  familiar  friends  in  the  world  of  farces. 
The  rapid  young  gentleman,  shunning  care,  quoting 

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scraps  of  poetry,  and  finally  marrying  a  lady's-maid  ; 
the  eccentric  bachelor,  as  whimsical  as  he  is  rich  ; 
the  drawling,  offensive,  hard  lordling,  have  long  been 
"  household  words  "  on  the  comic  stage.  It  is,  indeed, 
very  difficult  to  draw  a  minor  character  with  sufficient 
distinctness,  unless  by  giving  it  certain  very  marked 
peculiarities.  These  may  be  the  peculiarities  of  a 
class,  and  then  we  have  the  usual  pert  lady's-maid, 
roguish  valet,  eccentric  uncle,  and  so  forth.  Or  the 
peculiarities  may  be  merely  the  accidental  signs  of 
an  individual,  and  then  we  have  Mr.  Carker  with  his 
teeth,  and  persons  of  a  similar  stamp.  Mr.  Meredith 
tries  hard  to  keep  his  minor  characters  out  of  these 
fixed  and  unnatural  forms,  and  he  succeeds  so  far 
that  the  characters  he  chooses  to  assign  them  tell 
upon  the  action  of  the  story,  and  do  not  merely  grow 
beside  it.  There  is  also  a  mode  of  constructing  minor 
characters,  which  Mr.  Meredith  adopts  with  some 
success.  It  is  that  of  making  them  studies  of  moral 
development  under  peculiar  circumstances.  Thus, 
for  example,  there  is  a  second  young  lady  in  love 
with  the  tailor.  She  is  a  sickly  fright,  diseased  in 
body  and  mind.  But  she  fixes  her  affections  on  the 
tailor,  and  is  ready  to  die  when  he  will  not  have  her. 
The  truth  which  she  has  more  particularly  the  honour 
of  illustrating  is  that  a  young  lady  so  formed  in  body 
and  soul  would  be  especially  captivated  with  the 
externals  of  a  lover.  She  adores  the  build,  the  look, 
the  hair,  and  eyes  of  the  tailor,  and  is  indifferent  to 
his  loyalty  and  generosity.  She  thus  acts  as  a  foil, 
and  brings  to  light  the  more  elevated  tastes  of  the 

94 


on  Evan  Harrington 


heroine.  We  are  quite  ready  to  allow,  as  we  read 
the  story  of  this  poor  creature's  sorrows,  that  Mr. 
Meredith  may  very  likely  be  right,  and  that  Juliana 
loves  the  sort  of  qualities  in  a  man  which  a  sickly 
fright  would  be  likely  to  love.  When  we  have  once 
acknowledged  this,  we  cannot  avoid  seeing  that, 
although  she  is  not  very  pleasant  to  read  about,  she 
lends  at  once  plausibility  and  interest  to  the  story. 

It  is  very  difficult  to  measure  the  kind  of  praise 
which  such  a  book  as  "  Evan  Harrington  "  ought  to 
receive  ;  and  yet  criticism  ought  to  be  able  to  offer 
some  scale  by  which  praise  is  to  be  regulated. 
Readers  naturally  ask  themselves  what  is  the  merit 
that  is  really  meant  to  be  attributed  to  a  book  which 
they  are  advised  to  read.  We  cannot  fix  the  posi- 
tion of  every  good  book,  but  still  we  may  approxi- 
mate to  doing  so.  Every  now  and  then  there  is 
published  a  work,  like  "  Esmond,"  or  "  Adam  Bede," 
or  "Martin  Chuzzlewit,"  which  is  clearly  first-rate, 
which  becomes  at  once  part  of  English  literature,  and 
helps  to  form  the  thought  and  style  of  a  generation. 
On  the  other  hand,  there  are  every  season  published 
not  only  heaps  of  trashy  stories,  but  a  fair  supply 
of  readable,  meritorious,  creditable  novels.  Further, 
there  are  every  year,  or  almost  every  year,  published 
four  or  five  really  good  novels,  powerful  in  their  way, 
new,  or  rather  new,  capable  of  making  an  impression 
and  of  suggesting  thought.  Such  works  do  not 
generally  raise  an  expectation  that  they  will  be 
handed  down  to  any  very  late  date  ;  but  as  they 
pass  away,  we  feel  that  they  are  some  of  the  best 

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The  Saturday  Review  on  Evan  Harrington 

things  that  we  reject  and  let  float  at  once  down 
the  stream.  Some  of  them  may  survive,  for  the 
judgment  of  contemporaries  has  often  been  reversed, 
and  another  generation  may  think  even  more  of  them 
than  we  do.  But  usually  the  contemporaries  are 
right,  and  in  the  abundance  of  romances  it  is  best 
they  should  be  forgotten  after  they  have  given  delight 
for  a  short  time.  To  this  class  "  Evan  Harrington  " 
seems  to  us  to  belong.  It  is  not  a  great  work,  but 
it  is  a  remarkable  one,  and  deserves  a  front  place  in 
the  literature  that  is  ranked  as  avowedly  not  destined 
to  endure. 


96 


MODERN   LOVE 


IX 

ALGERNON    CHARLES   SWINBURNE 

ON 

MODERN   LOVE 

[This  is  Swinburne's  reply  to  a  review  of  "  Modern  Love  "  in  The 
Spectator  of  May  24,  1862.  It  appeared  in  No.  1771  of  that  journal, 
pp.  632-633,  on  June  7,  1862.] 

MR.  GEORGE  MEREDITH'S  "  MODERN  LOVE  " 
(Letter  to  the  Editor?) 

SIR, — I  cannot  resist  asking  the  favour  of  admission 
for  my  protest  against  the  article  on  Mr.  Meredith's 
last  volume  of  poems  in  the  Spectator  of  May  24th. 
That  I  personally  have  for  the  writings,  whether 
verse  or  prose,  of  Mr.  Meredith  a  most  sincere  and 
deep  admiration  is  no  doubt  a  matter  of  infinitely 
small  moment.  I  wish  only,  in  default  of  a  better, 
to  appeal  seriously  on  general  grounds  against  this 
sort  of  criticism  as  applied  to  one  of  the  leaders  of 
English  literature.  To  any  fair  attack  Mr.  Mere- 
dith's books  of  course  lie  as  much  open  as  another 
man's  ;  indeed,  standing  where  he  does,  the  very 
eminence  of  his  post  makes  him  perhaps  more  liable 
than  a  man  of  less  well-earned  fame  to  the  periodical 
slings  and  arrows  of  publicity.  Against  such  criticism 

99  H  2 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

no  one  would  have  a  right  to  appeal,  whether  for 
his  own  work  or  for  another's.  But  the  writer  of 
the  article  in  question  blinks  at  starting  the  fact  that 
he  is  dealing  with  no  unfledged  pretender.  Any 
work  of  a  man  who  has  won  his  spurs,  and  fought 
his  way  to  a  foremost  place  among  the  men  of  his 
time,  must  claim  at  least  a  grave  consideration  and 
respect.  It  would  hardly  be  less  absurd,  in  remark- 
ing on  a  poem  by  Mr.  Meredith,  to  omit  all  refer- 
ence to  his  previous  work,  and  treat  the  present 
book  as  if  its  author  had  never  tried  his  hand  at 
such  writing  before,  than  to  criticize  the  "Legende 
des  Siecles,"  or  (coming  to  a  nearer  instance)  the 
"  Idylls  of  the  King,"  without  taking  into  account 
the  relative  position  of  the  great  English  or  the 
greater  French  poet.  On  such  a  tone  of  criticism  as 
this  any  one  who  may  chance  to  see  or  hear  of  it 
has  a  right  to  comment. 

But  even  if  the  case  were  different,  and  the 
author  were  now  at  his  starting-point,  such  a  review 
of  such  a  book  is  surely  out  of  date.  Praise  or 
blame  should  be  thoughtful,  serious,  careful,  when 
applied  to  a  work  of  such  subtle  strength,  such  depth 
of  delicate  power,  such  passionate  and  various 
beauty,  as  the  leading  poem  of  Mr.  Meredith's 
volume :  in  some  points,  as  it  seems  to  me  (and  in 
this  opinion  I  know  that  I  have  weightier  judgments 
than  my  own  to  back  me)  a  poem  above  the  aim  and 
beyond  the  reach  of  any  but  its  author.  Mr.  Mere- 
dith is  one  of  the  three  or  four  poets  now  alive  whose 
work,  perfect  or  imperfect,  is  always  as  noble  in 

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on  Modern  Love 


design  as  it  is  often  faultless  in  result.  The  present 
critic  falls  foul  of  him  for  dealing  with  "  a  deep  and 
painful  subject  on  which  he  has  no  conviction  to 
express."  There  are  pulpits  enough  for  all  preachers 
in  prose ;  the  business  of  verse-writing  is  hardly 
to  express  convictions  ;  and  if  some  poetry,  not 
without  merit  of  its  kind,  has  at  times  dealt  in  dog- 
matic morality,  it  is  all  the  worse  and  all  the  weaker 
for  that.  As  to  subject,  it  is  too  much  to  expect 
that  all  schools  of  poetry  are  to  be  for  ever  subor- 
dinate to  the  one  just  now  so  much  in  request  with 
us,  whose  scope  of  sight  is  bounded  by  the  nursery 
walls  ;  that  all  Muses  are  to  bow  down  before  her 
who  babbles,  with  lips  yet  warm  from  their  pristine 
pap,  after  the  dangling  delights  of  a  child's  coral ; 
and  jingles  with  flaccid  fingers  one  knows  not 
whether  a  jester's  or  a  baby's  bells.  We  have  not 
too  many  writers  capable  of  duly  handling  a  subject 
worth  the  serious  interest  of  men.  As  to  execution, 
take  almost  any  sonnet  at  random  out  of  the  series, 
and  let  any  man  qualified  to  judge  for  himself  of 
metre,  choice  of  expression,  and  splendid  language, 
decide  on  its  claims.  And,  after  all,  the  test  will  be 
unfair,  except  as  regards  metrical  or  pictorial  merit ; 
every  section  of  this  great  progressive  poem  being 
connected  with  the  other  by  links  of  the  finest  and 
most  studied  workmanship.  Take,  for  example,  that 
noble  sonnet,  beginning 

"  We  saw  the  swallows  gathering  in  the  skies," 

a  more  perfect  piece  of  writing  no   man  alive  has 

101 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

ever  turned  out ;  witness  these  three  lines,  the 
grandest  perhaps  of  the  book : 

"  And  in  the  largeness  of  the  evening  earth, 
Our  spirit  grew  as  we  walked  side  by  side ; 
The  hour  became  her  husband,  and  my  bride ;  " 

but  in  transcription  it  must  lose  the  colour  and 
effect  given  it  by  its  place  in  the  series  ;  the  grave 
and  tender  beauty,  which  makes  it  at  once  a  bridge 
and  a  resting-place  between  the  admirable  poems  of 
passion  it  falls  among.  As  specimens  of  pure  power, 
and  depth  of  imagination  at  once  intricate  and 
vigorous,  take  the  two  sonnets  on  a  false  passing 
reunion  of  wife  and  husband  ;  the  sonnet  on  the 
rose  ;  that  other  beginning : 

"  I  am  not  of  those  miserable  males 
Who  sniff  at  vice,  and  daring  not  to  snap, 
Do  therefore  hope  for  heaven." 

And,  again,  that  earlier  one : 

"  All  other  joys  of  life  he  strove  to  warm." 

Of  the  shorter  poems  which  give  character  to  the 
book  I  have  not  space  to  speak  here;  and  as  the 
critic  has  omitted  noticing  the  most  valuable  and 
important  (such  as  the  "  Beggar's  Soliloquy,"  and  the 
"  Old  Chartist,"  equal  to  B6ranger  for  completeness 
of  effect  and  exquisite  justice  of  style,  but  notice- 
able for  a  thorough  dramatic  insight,  which  Be"ranger 
missed  through  his  personal  passions  and  partiali- 
ties), there  is  no  present  need  to  go  into  the  matter. 

1 02 


on  Modern  Love 


I  ask  you  to  admit  this  protest  simply  out  of  justice 
to  the  book  in  hand,  believing  as  I  do  that  it 
expresses  the  deliberate  unbiassed  opinion  of  a 
sufficient  number  of  readers  to  warrant  the  insertion 
of  it,  and  leaving  to  your  consideration  rather  their 
claims  to  a  fair  hearing  than  those  of  the  book's 
author  to  a  revised  judgment.  A  poet  of  Mr. 
Meredith's  rank  can  no  more  be  profited  by  the 
advocacy  of  his  admirers  than  injured  by  the  rash 
or  partial  attack  of  his  critics. 

A.  C.  SWINBURNE. 


103 


EMILIA   IN   ENGLAND 


X 

RICHARD    GARNETT 

ON 

EMILIA   IN   ENGLAND 

[This  review,  initialled  "  G.,"  appeared  in  The  Reader ;  vol.  iii.,  No. 
69,  pp.  514-515,  April  23,  1864.] 

THE  announcement  of  a  new  work  by  Mr.  George 
Meredith  is  necessarily  one  to  provoke  much  curiosity 
and  expectation,  since  even  a  moderate  approxima- 
tion to  the  end  he  has  been  wont  to  propose  to 
himself  implies  unusual  ability  of  an  unusual  descrip- 
tion. Mr.  Meredith  belongs  to  that  select  band  of 
humorists  who  mainly  rely  for  effect  upon  the 
pungency  and  piquancy  of  their  diction,  whether 
uttered  in  their  own  character,  or  placed  in  the 
mouths  of  their  dramatis  persona.  Few  writers 
indeed  could  dispose  of  resources  adequate  to  so 
sustained  a  display  of  intellectual  pyrotechnics  as 
that  which  has  now  lasted  Mr.  Meredith  through  nine 
volumes.  It  is  comparatively  easy  to  devise  humor- 
ous situations ;  but  this  is  farce.  Mr.  Meredith's 
works  are  the  best  modern  representatives  of  the 
genteel  comedy  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  since. 
Incident  and  character  are  not  neglected ;  but  both 

107 


Richard  Garnett 


are  subordinate  to  dialogue.  The  personages  have 
their  prototypes  in  nature,  but  are  still  somewhat 
idealised :  they  are  like  and  not  like  people  we  have 
seen.  They  are  rather  types  of  character  than 
individuals.  Maskwell  in  Congreve's  comedy,  for 
example,  is  a  really  scientific  combination  of  the 
chief  traits  of  a  designing  villain ;  but  we  may 
perceive  at  once  that  these  have  been  ingeniously 
put  together  in  the  study,  not  copied  from  the  living 
model.  It  is  a  significant  circumstance  that  all 
Congreve's  plays  were  composed  at  an  age  when  Mr. 
Meredith  had  hardly  begun  to  write.  The  latter's 
experience  of  life  is  consequently  much  wider,  and 
there  is  that  in  the  genius  of  his  time  which  causes 
him  to  be  more  solicitous  about  the  truth  of  things. 
Nevertheless,  next  to  the  intellectual  brilliancy  of 
his  writings,  their  most  salient  feature  is  their 
artificial  aspect.  A  principle  of  intelligent  selection 
seems  to  have  presided  over  their  genesis  and 
development.  The  story  is  carefully  chosen  for  the 
sake  of  some  favourite  idea  snugly  bedded  in  the 
centre  of  it — a  Psyche-germ,  swathed  in  a  rich  cocoon 
of  illustration.  The  personages  are  all  selected  with 
a  similar  view,  and  their  sayings  and  doings  meted 
out  with  the  nicest  accuracy.  The  style  again  is 
highly  rechercht>  spiced  with  epigram,  and  elaborated 
even  to  obscurity.  It  might  easily  be  surmised  that 
Mr.  Meredith  experienced  considerable  difficulty  in 
arraying  his  thoughts  in  their  appropriate  garment  of 
speech,  and  that  the  frequent  harshness  of  his  expo- 
sition was  the  evidence  of  a  victory  won  by  a 

108 


on  Emilia  in  England 


vigorous  growth  over  an  unkindly  soil.  Thus  rich, 
original,  strained,  and  artificial,  the  general  effect  of 
one  of  Mr.  Meredith's  novels  is  very  much  that  of  a 
fine  landscape  seen  through  tinted  glass — a  pleasing 
variety,  so  long  as  there  are  plain  windows  in  the 
house.  To  read  Mr.  Meredith  in  his  turn  is  to  season 
the  feast  of  literature  with  an  exquisite  condiment ; 
to  read  nobody  but  Mr.  Meredith  would  be  like 
making  a  dinner  of  salt — Attic,  of  course. 

"  Emilia  in  England  "  is  fully  equal  to  the  author's 
former  works  in  humour  and  power,  and  only  less 
remarkable  in  so  far  as  it  is  less  original.  The  plot 
is  a  variation  on  the  theme  of  "  Evan  Harrington." 
The  comedy  of  that  admirable  novel  turned  on  the 
struggle  of  three  sisters,  upheaved  into  a  higher  than 
their  natural  sphere,  with  the  demon  of  Tailordom  ; 
their  frantic  efforts  to  entomb  the  monstrous  corpse 
of  their  plebeian  origin  beneath  the  hugest  available 
heaps  of  acted  and  spoken  lies  ;  the  vigorous  resist- 
ance of  that  ghastly  being  to  this  method  of  disposing 
of  him,  and  his  victorious  assertion  of  his  right  to 
walk  the  earth.  The  more  serious  interest  arose  from 
the  entanglement  of  their  straightforward  brother  in 
their  web  of  imposition,  not  without  the  participation 
of  the  mischievous  deity  of  Love.  In  "  Emilia  "  we 
have  three  sisters  again — the  Misses  Pole — Pole, 
Polar,  and  North  Pole,  or,  as  the  profane  have  entitled 
them,  Pole,  Polony,  and  Maypole.  The  situation  is 
fundamentally  the  same,  but  so  far  varied  that  the 
ladies  have  no  chance  of  concealing  their  mercantile 
origin,  of  which,  indeed,  to  do  them  justice,  they  are 

109 


Richard  Garnett 


not  ashamed.  They  simply  wish  to  get  higher,  and, 
by  way  of  justifying  their  ambition  to  themselves, 
have  set  up  a  fancied  code  of  feelings  supposed  to  be 
proper  to  the  highest  circles,  to  which,  by  way  of 
demonstrating  their  fitness  for  the  same,  they  make 
it  the  study  of  their  lives  to  conform. 

"  They  went  on  perpetually  mounting.  It  is  still  a  good 
way  from  the  head  of  the  tallest  of  men  to  the  stars ;  so 
they  had  their  work  before  them ;  but,  as  they  observed, 
they  were  young.  To  be  brief,  they  were  very  ambitious 
damsels,  aiming  at  they  knew  not  exactly  what,  save  that 
it  was  something  so  wide  that  it  had  not  a  name,  and  so 
high  in  air  that  no  one  could  see  it.  They  knew  assuredly 
that  their  circle  did  not  please  them.  So,  therefore,  they 
were  constantly  extending  and  refining  it :  extending  it 
perhaps  for  the  purpose  of  refining  it.  Their  susceptibilities 
demanded  that  they  should  escape  from  a  city  circle. 
Having  no  mother,  they  ruled  their  father's  house  and  him, 
and  were  at  least  commanders  of  whatsoever  forces  they 
could  summon  for  the  task.  It  may  be  seen  that  they  were 
sentimentalists.  That  is  to  say,  they  supposed  that  they 
enjoyed  exclusive  possession  of  the  Nice  Feelings,  and 
exclusively  comprehended  the  Fine  Shades.  Whereof 
more  will  be  said ;  but  in  the  mean  time  it  will  explain 
their  propensity  to  mount;  it  will  account  for  their 
irritation  at  the  material  obstructions  surrounding  them; 
and  possibly  the  philosopher  will  now  have  his  eye  on  the 
source  of  that  extraordinary  sense  of  superiority  to  mankind 
which  was  the  crown  of  their  complacent  brows.  Eclipsed 
as  they  may  be  in  the  gross  appreciation  of  the  world  by 
other  people,  who  excel  in  this  and  that  accomplishment, 
persons  that  nourish  the  Nice  Feelings  and  are  intimate 
with  the  Fine  Shades  carry  their  own  test  of  intrinsic  value." 

IIO 


on  Emilia  in  England 


That  is,  they  lived  by  a  conventional  rule,  just  as 
the  baronet  in  Mr.  Meredith's  first  novel  brought  up 
his  son  upon  system.  Mr.  Meredith  appears  to 
entertain  a  special  detestation  for  anything  cut  and 
dried,  and  the  gist  of  his  present  work  is  a  sarcastic 
but  quiet  exposure  of  the  evil  these  ladies  wrought 
against  their  better  nature.  The  following  passage 
will  give  some  idea  of  what  these  worshippers  of 
Fine  Shades  are  called  upon  to  endure : — 

"  At  breakfast  in  the  morning,  it  was  the  habit  of  all 
the  ladies  to  assemble,  partly  to  countenance  the  decency 
of  matin-prayers,  and  also  to  give  the  head  of  the  house- 
hold their  dutiful  society  till  business  called  him  away. 
Adela,  in  earlier  days,  had  maintained  that  early  rising  was 
not  fashionable ;  but  she  soon  grasped  the  idea  that  a  great 
rivalry  with  Fashion,  in  minor  matters  (where  the  support 
of  the  satirist  might  be  counted  on),  was  the  proper  policy 
of  Brookfield.  Mrs.  Chump  was  given  to  be  extremely 
fashionable  in  her  hours,  and  began  her  Brookfield  career 
by  coming  downstairs  at  ten  and  eleven  o'clock,  when 
she  found  a  desolate  table,  well-stocked,  indeed,  but  without 
any  of  the  exuberant  smiles  of  nourishment  which  a  morn- 
ing repast  should  wear.  '  You  are  a  Protestant,  ma'am,  are 
you  not?'  Adela  mildly  questioned,  after  informing  her 
that  she  missed  family  prayer  by  her  late  descent.  Mrs. 
Chump  assured  her  that  she  was  a  firm  Protestant,  and 
liked  to  see  faces  at  the  breakfast-table.  The  poor  woman 
was  reduced  to  submit  to  the  rigour  of  the  hour,  coming 
down  flustered,  and  endeavouring  to  look  devout,  while 
many  uncertainties  as  to  the  condition  of  the  looks  of  her 
attire  distracted  her  mind  and  fingers.  On  one  occasion, 
Gainsford,  the  footman,  had  been  seen  with  his  eye  on 
her ;  and  while  Mr.  Pole  read  of  sacred  things,  at  a  pace 

III 


Richard  Garnett 


composed  of  slow  march  and  amble,  this  unhappy  man  was 
heard  struggling  to  keep  under  and  extinguish  a  devil  of 
laughter,  by  which  his  human  weakness  was  shaken.  He 
retired  from  the  room  with  the  speed  of  a  voyager  about  to 
pay  tribute  on  high  seas.  Mr.  Pole  cast  a  pregnant  look 
towards  the  servants'  row  as  he  closed  the  book ;  but  the 
expression  of  his  daughters'  faces  positively  signified  that 
no  remark  was  to  be  made,  and  he  contained  himself. 
Later,  the  ladies  told  him  that  Gainsford  had  done  no 
worse  than  any  uneducated  man  would  have  been  guilty  of 
doing.  Mrs.  Chump  had,  it  appeared,  a  mother's  feeling 
for  one  flat  curl  on  her  rugged  forehead,  which  was  often 
fondly  caressed  by  her,  for  the  sake  of  ascertaining  its 
fixity.  Doubts  of  the  precision  of  outline  and  general 
welfare  of  this  curl,  apparently,  caused  her  to  straighten  her 
back  and  furtively  raise  her  head,  with  an  easy  upward 
motion,  as  of  a  cork  alighted  in  water,  above  the  level  of 
the  looking-glass  on  her  left  hand — an  action  she  repeated, 
with  a  solemn  aspect,  four  times  ;  at  which  point  Gainsford 
gave  way.  The  ladies  accorded  him  every  extenuation  for 
the  offence.  They  themselves,  but  for  the  heroism  of 
exalted  natures,  must  have  succumbed  to  the  gross  tempta- 
tion. 'It  is  difficult,  dear  papa,  to  bring  one's  mind  to 
religious  thoughts  in  her  company,  even  when  she  is 
quiescent,'  they  said.  Thus,  by  the  prettiest  exercise  of 
charity  that  can  be  conceived,  they  pleaded  for  the  man 
Gainsford,  while  they  struck  a  blow  at  Mrs.  Chump ;  and, 
in  performing  one  of  the  virtues  laid  down  by  religion, 
proved  their  enemy  to  be  hostile  to  its  influences." 

Emilia  Belloni,  the  heroine,  is  an  entire  contrast 
to  the  Miss  Poles.  She  is  in  most  respects  a  repeti- 
tion of  Rose  Jocelyn  in  "  Evan  Harrington  "—a 
pattern  of  pure  nature,  perfect  guilelessness,  absolute 

112 


on  Emilia  in  England 


unreserve,  and  entire  surrender  to  self-oblivious 
passion.  She  combines  the  unembarrassed  purity  of 
an  antique  statue  with  the  fire  of  a  painting  of  the 
modern  school.  She  is  most  pathetic  in  her  con- 
fiding simplicity — in  her  frankness  perfectly  irresisti- 
ble. This  complete  self-abandonment  is  powerfully 
contrasted  with  Wilfrid  Pole's  merely  sentimental 
feeling  for  the  beautiful  stranger,  and  paralleled  with 
Merthyr  Powys's  devotion  to  the  cause  of  Emilia's 
country.  Here  are  the  materials  of  an  excellent 
drama ;  and,  though  the  interest  of  the  book  does 
not  mainly  depend  upon  the  incidents,  there  are 
sufficient  to  prevent  it  from  flagging  to  any  great 
extent.  The  chief  obstacles  to  its  success  will  pro- 
bably be  found  in  the  peculiarity  of  the  style,  the 
quaintness  (so  pleasant  to  those  who  have  once 
learned  to  relish  it)  of  Mr.  Meredith's  habits  of 
thought,  and  the  idealisation  of  the  characters. 
There  is  a  soul  of  truth  in  them  all ;  but  it  is  some- 
times rather  grotesquely  incarnated.  A  hostile 
criticism  might  enlarge  on  their  unlikeness  to  ordi- 
nary mortals.  The  reply  must  be  that  they  are 
meant  to  embody  certain  types  of  thought  and 
feeling,  and  consequently  rather  made  to  order  than 
sketched  from  the  life.  This  employment  of  Mr. 
Meredith's  talents  is  perfectly  legitimate,  especially 
after  the  proofs  he  has  given  of  his  ability  to  re- 
produce actual  character  with  unimpaired  effect. 
Observation  alone  could  have  furnished  material  for 
such  vivid  delineations  as  those  of  Mrs.  Chump,  in 
whose  vicinity  sentiment  is  barely  possible,  and  Mr. 

113  I 


Richard  Garnett 


Pericles,  Greek  millionaire,  musical  bear,  and  bene- 
ficent ogre.  Perhaps  the  scenes  where  he  appears 
are  the  richest  in  a  work  scintillating  throughout  with 
wit  and  humour,  nor  yet  devoid  of  patches  of  tender 
moonlight,  like  this  last  appearance  of  Emilia  in 
England : — 

"  A  sharp  breath  of  air  had  passed  along  the  dews,  and 
all  the  young  green  of  the  fresh  season  shone  in  white 
jewels.  The  sky,  set  with  very  dim,  distant  stars,  was  in 
grey  light  round  a  small  brilliant  moon.  Every  space  of 
earth  lifted  clear  to  her;  the  woodland  listened;  and  in 
the  bright  silence  the  nightingale  sang  loud. 

"  Emilia  and  Tracy  Runningbrook  were  treading  their 
way  towards  a  lane  over  which  great  oak  branches  inter- 
volved ;  thence,  under  larches,  all  with  glittering  sleeves, 
and  among  spiky  brambles,  with  the  purple  leaf  and  the 
crimson  frosted.  The  frost  on  the  edges  of  the  brown- 
leaved  bracken  gave  a  faint  colour.  Here  and  there 
intense  silver  dazzled  their  eyes.  As  they  advanced  amid 
the  icy  hush,  so  hard  and  instant  was  the  ring  of  the  earth 
under  them,  their  steps  sounded  as  if  expected. 

" '  This  night  seems  made  for  me  ! '  said  Emilia. 

"  Tracy  had  no  knowledge  of  the  object  of  the  expedi- 
tion. He  was  her  squire,  simply ;  had  pitched  on  a  sudden 
into  an  enamoured  condition,  and  walked  beside  her,  caring 
little  whither  he  was  led,  so  that  she  left  him  not. 

"They  came  upon  a  clearing  in  the  wood  where  a 
tournament  of  knights  might  have  been  held.  Ranged 
on  two  sides  were  rows  of  larches,  and  forward,  fit  to 
plume  a  dais,  a  clump  of  tall  firs  stood  with  a  flowing 
silver  fir  to  right  and  left,  and  the  white  stems  of  the  birch 
tree  shining  from  among  them.  This  fair  woodland  court 
had  three  broad  oaks,  as  for  gateways  ;  and  the  moon,  was 

114 


on  Emilia  in  England 


above    it.     Moss  and  the   frosted  brown   fern  were  its 
flooring. 

"  Emilia  said  eagerly,  '  This  way,'  and  ran  under  one 
of  the  oaks.  She  turned  to  Tracy,  following :  '  There  is 
no  doubt  of  it.'  Her  hand  was  lying  softly  on  her  throat. 

" '  Your  voice  ? '    Tracy  divined  her. 

"She  nodded,  but  frowned  lovingly  at  the  shout  he 
raised;  and  he  understood  that  there  was  haply  some 
plot  to  be  worked  out.  The  open  space  was  quite  luminous 
in  the  middle  of  those  three  deep  walls  of  shadow.  Emilia 
enjoined  him  to  rest  where  he  was,  and  wait  for  her  on 
that  spot  like  a  faithful  sentinel,  whatsoever  ensued.  Coax- 
ing his  promise,  she  entered  the  square  of  white  light  alone. 
Presently  she  stood  upon  a  low  mound,  so  that  her  whole 
figure  was  distinct,  while  the  moon  made  her  features 
visible. 

"  Expectancy  sharpened  the  stillness  to  Tracy's  ears. 
A  nightingale  began  the  charm.  He  was  answered  by 
another.  Many  were  soon  in  song,  till  even  the  pauses 
were  sweet  with  them.  Tracy  had  the  thought  that  they 
were  calling  for  Emilia  to  commence ;  that  it  was  nature 
preluding  the  divine  human  voice,  weaving  her  spell  for  it. 
He  was  seized  by  a  thirst  to  hear  the  adorable  girl,  who 
stood  there  patiently,  with  her  face  lifted  soft  in  moon- 
light. And  then  the  blood  thrilled  along  his  veins,  as  if 
one  more  than  mortal  had  touched  him.  It  seemed  to 
him  long,  before  he  knew  that  Emilia's  voice  was  in  the 
air." 


RHODA  FLEMING 


XI 
THE  SATURDAY  REVIEW 

ON 

RHODA  FLEMING 

[From  The  Saturday  Review^  vol.  20,  No.  520,  October  14,  1865, 
pp.  489-490.] 

IT  is  a  great  comfort  to  those  who  admire  manly 
thinking  and  good  English  to  find  that  Mr.  Meredith 
has,  for  a  time  at  least,  abandoned  the  over-subtle 
and  unfruitful  speculations  upon  character  and  society 
which  made  his  last  novel  a  peculiarly  conspicuous 
instance  of  both  originality  and  labour  failing  to 
redeem  the  prime  mistake  of  an  ill-chosen  theme. 
There  are  so  few  writers  who  combine  creative  power 
with  that  faculty  of  a  large  and  liberal  observation 
of  life  which  alone  can  make  their  creations  real  or 
worth  studying,  that  one  grudges  anything  like  waste 
of  a  kind  of  ability  so  uncommon.  Mr.  Meredith  no 
doubt  takes  a  high  place  among  novelists  of  this 
rank.  In  all  his  books  he  introduces  us  to  fresh 
and  vigorously  drawn  characters.  He  never  resorts 
to  the  "common  form"  of  fiction.  The  mass  of 
novels  are  like  a  very  select  circle  in  society ;  night 
after  night,  though  the  names  and  dresses  and  scenes 

119 


The  Saturday  Review 


are  slightly  changed,  the  reader  meets  exactly  the 
same  set  of  people,  and  they  all  talk  in  exactly  the 
same  fashion,  and  do  the  same  sort  of  things.  It  is 
something  for  which  to  be  grateful  to  find  a  writer 
who  has  the  power,  and  takes  the  trouble,  to  exhibit 
new  characters ;  and  to  exhibit  them,  moreover,  as 
doing  and  feeling  what  they  would  do  and  feel  in 
the  ordinary  human  way,  not  as  if  they  were  visibly 
playing  at  being  characters  in  a  novel.  Besides  this, 
Mr.  Meredith  has  the  excellent  negative  quality  of 
abstaining  from  superfluous  and  unprovoked  padding. 
He  does  not  deny  himself  frequent  asides — though 
they  are  rarer  in  "Rhoda  Fleming"  than  in  his  previous 
books — but  then  these  asides  are  not  digressions  on 
things  in  general.  They  spring  easily  from  the  action 
of  the  story,  and  we  are  not  sent  clean  out  of  our 
track  and  then  back  into  it  again  by  two  violent 
jolts.  Of  course,  in  escaping  from  the  vices  or 
feebleness  of  ordinary  fiction,  it  was  not  to  be 
expected  that  Mr.  Meredith  should  altogether  avoid 
the  invention  of  one  or  two  vices  of  his  own.  He  is 
occasionally  obscure  in  his  reflections,  carrying  his 
reader  too  hastily  forward  over  stony  places  and  up 
steep  ascents  of  argument,  and  landing  him  breathless 
he  scarce  knows  where.  A  plain  man  has  a  desire, 
perhaps  a  weak  one,  to  see  the  path  by  which  he  has 
been  transported  into  unfamiliar  regions,  but  Mr. 
Meredith  inconsiderately  argues  in  seven-league 
boots.  The  fault  is  the  natural  result  of  one  of 
his  chief  excellences.  He  has  such  a  complete  and 
personal  intimacy  with  the  people  of  his  story,  he 

120 


on  Rhoda  Fleming 


realizes  so  vividly  to  himself  their  characteristics  and 
the  effects  of  the  situation  upon  them,  as  to  forget 
that  the  reader  of  a  novel  knows  nothing  about  the 
personages  who  act  in  it  beyond  what  the  author 
chooses  to  tell  them.  We  require  to  have  a  very 
great  deal  told  us  about  a  man  whose  character  we 
are  asked  to  understand,  when  we  only  know  him 
through  the  imperfectly  conducting  medium  of  print. 
The  same  vividness  of  conception  on  the  part  of  the 
author  may  perhaps  account  for  the  oblique  way  in 
which  the  incidents  of  the  story  are  revealed.  We 
seem  to  be  too  often  introduced  to  the  effect  before 
getting  any  insight  into  the  cause.  The  author  has 
fully  pictured  the  incident  to  his  own  mind,  and  then 
hastens  to  consider  its  consequences  upon  the  cha- 
racter whom  it  concerns,  the  reader  meanwhile  rather 
wondering  what  it  is  all  about,  and  what  has  happened. 
One  or  two  things  are  scarcely  made  clear  at  all. 
What  Mrs.  Lovell  and  Major  Waring  had  done  in 
India,  and  what  was  the  secret  of  the  blood-stained 
handkerchief,  are  things  only  divulged  to  us  very 
dimly,  and  left  vague  even  to  the  very  end.  Obviously 
it  is  not  pleasant  to  see  the  play  through  a  film. 

But  these  passing  obscurities  may  well  be  for- 
gotten in  the  vigorous  and  impressive  painting  of  the 
more  prominent  figures,  as  well  as  in  the  admirable 
manliness  with  which  Mr.  Meredith  has  treated  a 
situation  that  is  commonly  made  the  occasion  either 
of  sermonizing  or  of  sentimentalism.  The  author 
declines  to  win  popularity  by  either  of  these  favourite 
and  infallible  devices.  A  girl  who  has  been  seduced 

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is  not,  to  him,  a  person  whom,  as  an  artist,  it  is  his 
business  either  to  preach  over  or  to  cry  over.  It 
may  be  the  duty  of  the  parson  to  moralize  about  the 
falling  away  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  a  great  many 
people  like  to  have  the  woman  who  has  committed 
this  particular  offence  against  society  written  about 
in  a  tone  of  mingled  pity  and  pruriency,  a  mixture 
of  snivelling  and  sniffing.  With  all  this  the  artist  has 
nothing  to  do.  It  is  not  his  part  to  pass  sentence  for 
sins  against  society,  nor  to  surround  the  sinner  with 
all  manner  of  artificial  saintly  crowns  and  heavenly 
haloes.  To  him  the  woman  who  sacrifices  herself  for 
passion  is  what  she  is,  and  no  more.  Much  of  her 
worth  may  survive,  or  she  may  be  as  unworthy  after 
a  fall  as  she  was  before.  One  must  look  at  her  with 
"rightful  manliness" — without  "those  false  sensa- 
tions, peculiar  to  men,  concerning  the  soiled  purity 
of  women,  the  lost  innocence,  the  brand  of  shame 
upon  her,  which  are  commonly  the  foul  sentimental- 
ism  of  such  as  can  be  too  eager  in  the  chase  of 
corruption  when  occasion  suits,  and  are  another  side 
of  pruriency,  not  absolutely  foreign  to  the  best  of  us 
in  our  youth."  "  The  young  man  who  can  look  upon 
them  we  call  fallen  women  with  a  noble  eye  is  to  my 
mind  he  that  is  most  nobly  begotten  of  the  race,  and 
likeliest  to  be  the  sire  of  a  noble  line."  In  the  same 
way,  the  stern  sister  is  drawn  without  a  touch  of 
exaggeration  in  the  direction  either  of  sympathy  or 
caricature.  Rhoda's  conviction  that  her  sister  in 
spite  of  all  appearances  is  married,  and  her  anger 
with  anybody  who  ventures  to  hold  the  more  probable 

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on  Rhoda  Fleming 


opinion,  are  brought  out  with  remarkable  truth. 
In  the  days  of  their  youth  she  and  her  sister  had 
accidental  occasion  to  ponder  much  on  the  harshness 
with  which  the  village  had  treated  a  luckless  girl 
who  had  returned  to  it  with  a  blemished  name. 
"  They  could  not  fathom  the  meaning  of  their  father's 
unkindness,  coarseness,  and  indignation.  Why  and 
why  ?  they  asked  one  another  blankly.  The  Scrip- 
tures were  harsh  in  one  part,  but  was  the  teaching  to 
continue  so  after  the  atonement?"  Then,  in  years 
after,  when  Dahlia's  name  became  spotted,  "  the  old 
and  deep  grievance  in  her  heart  as  to  what  men 
thought  of  women  and  as  to  the  harshness  of  men  " 
was  strongly  stirred  up.  Her  intense  faith  in  her 
sister,  and  her  resolute  facing  of  the  suspicions  to 
which  men's  mean  natures  prompted  them,  furnish 
the  key  to  the  first  half  of  her  action  in  the  story. 
This  faith,  indeed,  is  the  only  quality  which  keeps 
Rhoda  from  being  too  absolutely  cold  and  passionless 
to  be  either  truthfully  drawn  or  interesting.  When 
the  fatal  fact  is  forced  upon  her,  and  a  chance  of 
marriage  is  offered  to  her  sister,  the  instinct  which 
their  Hebrew  religious  teaching  implants  in  most 
English  girls  of  strong  nature  impels  her  remorse- 
lessly to  drive  the  fallen  creature  to  the  only  step 
which  can  set  her  erect  again  before  the  world, 
though  permanent  wretchedness  should  be  the  clear 
result.  She  knows  that  "it  is  a  good  and  precious 
thing  to  do  right,"  and  this  is  the  one  item  of  belief 
and  knowledge  to  which  she  holds  fast.  And  even 
when  she  finds  that  she  has  thus  inflicted  a  curse 

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upon  her  sister,  "  she  had  still  a  feeling  of  the  harsh 
joy  peculiar  to  those  who  have  exercised  command 
with  a  conscious  righteousness  upon  wilful,  sinful,  and 
errant  spirits,  and  have  thwarted  the  wrongdoer." 
But — by  an  excellent  touch  by  which  the  author 
shows  the  thoroughness  and  pliancy  of  his  concep- 
tion— she  tries  in  vain  to  console  herself  in  reflecting 
that  the  doom  had  been  righteously  executed  when 
the  unhappy  Dahlia  is  before  her.  "  Away  from  the 
tragic  figure  in  the  room,  she  might  have  thought  so, 
but  the  horror  in  the  eyes  and  voice  of  this  awakened 
Sacrifice  struck  away  the  support  of  theoretic  justifi- 
cation. Great  pity  for  the  poor  enmeshed  life,  help- 
less there,  and  in  woman's  worst  peril — looking  either 
to  madness  or  to  death  for  an  escape — drowned  her 
reason  in  a  heavy  cloud  of  tears." 

The  weaker  sort  of  novelist  generally  prides  him- 
self amazingly  on  what  he  deems  the  consistency  of 
his  characters.  That  is,  he  first  casts  them  in  a 
mould,  rigidly  and  unchangeably  formed,  and  they 
move  to  and  fro  on  the  scene  like  figures  of  iron 
propelled  in  one  inevitable  direction  by  interior 
clockwork.  But  Mr.  Meredith  is  wholly  free  from 
this  barren  and  enfeebling  notion.  Rhoda  is  stern, 
earnest,  of  the  Hebrew  or  Puritanic  complexion. 
But  she  is  incredulous  of  her  sister's  sin  for  all  that. 
Even  when  it  is  proved,  she  has  no  hard  reproaches 
for  the  sinner.  And  a  confidence  in  what  her  creed 
and  custom  have  taught  her  to  look  on  as  the 
righteous  course  does  not  shut  her  heart  up  against 
sympathy  with  the  creature  upon  whom  the  righteous 

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on  Rhoda  Fleming 


course — as  is  too  often  its  wont — has  brought  un- 
utterable wretchedness.   This  flexibility  of  a  distinctly 
drawn  character  before  changing  circumstances  is  an 
effect  which  our  novelists  rarely  attempt.     Mr.  Mere- 
dith in  all  his  books  is  particularly  fond  of  tracing 
these   variations.      He   places  his  personages   in   a 
number  of  given  situations,  and  seems  as  it  were  to 
watch,  almost  for  his  own  diversion,  the  development 
of  character  which  ensues.     The  reader  is  persuaded 
that  the  growth  of  the  hero  or  heroine's  nature  is 
spontaneous,  though  under  the  influence  of  surround- 
ing things  ;  and  this,  in  its  own  way,  is  a  very  distinct 
triumph  of  art.    In  the  character  of  Edward  Blancove 
the  author  produces  the  same  effect  of  movement, 
but,  as  it  appears  to  us,  with  less  success.   The  pivots 
on  which  the  movement  turns  are  less  intelligible  and 
less  natural.      Witty,  selfish,  half-cynical,  to   begin 
with,  he  is  somehow  overwhelmed  by  a  moral  revo- 
lution which  leaves  him  devoted,  and,  indeed,  on  one 
occasion  absolutely  pious.   The  reader  may  complain 
that  nothing  through  the  first  volume   and  a  half 
furnishes  even  a  hint  that  at  bottom  Edward  has  the 
smallest  richness  of  nature,  and   that  nothing  has 
happened  to  produce  so  sudden  a  development  of 
fine  qualities.     The  ambitious  and  highly-cultivated 
young  man   is,  we  know,  apt  to  react   against  the 
impulses  both  of  ambition  and  of  intellectual  fastidi- 
ousness, and,  when  in  the  mood,  to  sacrifice  prospects 
and  everything  else  to  a  yearning  for  simplicity  and 
a  kind  of  virtuousness.     But  it  is  hard  to  see  why 
inability   to   fathom    the    depths   of    Mrs.   Lovell's 

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character  should  make  Edward  write  to  Dahlia  : — 
"And  I,  who  have  sinned  against  my  innocent 
darling,  will  ask  her  to  pray  with  me  that  our  future 
may  be  one,  so  that  I  may  make  good  to  her  what 
she  has  suffered,  and  to  the  God  whom  we  worship 
the  offence  I  have  committed." 

Mr.  Meredith's  exclusive  devotion  to  play  of 
character  would  seem  to  lie  at  the  root  of  what  is  his 
chief  defect — weakness  of  construction.  His  situa- 
tions hang  too  loosely  together.  Provided  he  can 
make  his  characters  grow  and  move,  provided  he 
can  throw  a  sufficient  variety  of  light  and  colour 
over  them,  he  is  comparatively  indifferent  to  the 
close  coherence  of  his  incidents,  or  to  anything  like 
a  compact  and  finished  story.  There  is  unquestion- 
ably something  exceedingly  poor  in  the  popular 
craving  for  a  minute  final  account  of  what  becomes 
of  everybody  who  has  figured  ever  so  slightly  in  the 
story.  A  novelist  does  well  to  refuse  to  go  through 
a  muster-roll  of  his  characters  at  the  end  of  the  third 
volume,  sending  all  the  bad  people  into  misery,  and 
rewarding  all  the  good  people  by  happy  lives  ever 
after.  This  makes  the  whole  thing  so  plainly  and 
horribly  artificial  that  we  cannot  expect  a  writer  who 
claims  a  place  among  artists  to  institute  this  sort  of 
parade.  Still,  Mr.  Meredith  leaves  us  a  little  too 
abruptly.  It  seems  as  if  he  had  got  as  much  amuse- 
ment for  himself  as  he  wished  out  of  the  movements 
of  his  characters,  and  then  had  ceased  to  take  interest 
in  what  might  become  of  them.  The  reader  may  be 
pardoned  for  feeling  rather  less  like  an  Epicurean 

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god.  Mr.  Meredith  has  the  art  of  drawing  men  and 
women  so  like  flesh  and  blood  that  we  naturally  have 
at  least  a  human  interest  in  their  fate. 

There  are  in  "  Rhoda  Fleming "  some  admirably 
fresh  and  vigorous  sketches  of  country  life  and  nature. 
The  father  of  Rhoda  is  an  excellent  specimen  of  the 
sturdy  British  yeoman,  whose  ideas  are  very  few  and 
very  simple,  but  obstinate  and  deep-rooted  in  pro- 
portion. He  is  overwhelmingly  grateful,  and  even 
respectful,  to  the  man  who  marries  his  daughter, 
though  he  knows  him  to  be  a  villain  ;  and  he  insists 
on  her  joining  her  husband,  though  her  joining  him 
means  certain  and  enduring  misery.  All  this  makes 
us  dreadfully  angry,  but  it  is  uncommonly  true  to 
rural  nature.  The  scene  at  the  Pilot  Inn,  too,  is 
exquisitely  humorous  and  truthful.  So  are  the  minor 
characters  of  Mrs.  Sumfit  and  Master  Gammon,  the 
two  old  farm-servants.  The  latter  is  really  inimitable. 
Dahlia  is  lying  ill  up-stairs  : — 

"Nevertheless,  the  sight  of  Master  Gammon  was  like 
a  comforting  medicine  to  all  who  were  in  the  house.  He 
was  Mrs.  Sumfit's  clock;  he  was  balm  and  blessedness  in 
Rhoda's  eyes;  Anthony  was  jealous  of  him;  the  farmer 
held  to  him  as  to  a  stake  in  the  ground;  even  Robert,  who 
rallied  and  tormented,  and  was  vexed  by  him,  admitted 
that  he  stood  some  way  between  an  example  and  a  warning, 
and  was  a  study.  The  grand  primaeval  quality  of  unchange- 
ableness  as  exhibited  by  this  old  man  affected  them  singu- 
larly in  their  recovery  from  the  storm  and  the  wreck  of  the 
hours  gone  by;  so  much  so  that  they  could  not  divest 
themselves  of  the  idea  that  it  was  a  manifestation  of  power 
in  Master  Gammon  to  show  forth  undisturbed  while  they 

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were  feeling  their  life  shaken  in  them  to  the  depths.  I 
have  never  had  the  opportunity  of  examining  the  idol- 
worshipping  mind  of  a  savage ;  but  it  seems  possible  that 
the  immutability  of  aspect  of  his  little  wooden  god  may 
sometimes  touch  him  with  a  similar  astounded  awe ;  even 
when,  and  indeed  especially  after,  he  has  thrashed  it.  Had 
the  old  man  betrayed  his  mortality  in  a  sign  of  curiosity  to 
know  why  the  hubbub  of  trouble  had  arisen,  and  who  was 
to  blame,  and  what  was  the  story,  the  effect  on  them  would 
have  been  diminished.  He  really  seemed  granite  among 
the  turbulent  waves.  '  Give  me  Gammon's  life  ! '  was  father 
Fleming's  prayerful  interjection ;  seeing  him  come  and  go, 
sit  at  his  meals,  and  sleep  and  wake  in  season,  all  through 
those  tragic  hours  of  suspense,  without  a  question  to 
anybody.  Once  or  twice,  when  his  eye  fell  upon  the  doctor, 
Master  Gammon  appeared  to  meditate." 

Algernon  Blancove  is  a  capital  study  of  the  minor 
rank.  "This  youth  is  one  of  great  Nature's  tom- 
fools, an  elegant  young  gentleman  outwardly,  of  the 
very  large  class  who  are  simply  the  engines  of  their 
appetites,  and  to  the  philosophic  eye  still  run  wild 
in  woods."  However,  "the  most  worthless  creature 
is  most  serviceable  for  examination,  when  the  micro- 
scope is  applied  to  them  [it  ?],  as  a  simple  study  of 
human  mechanism."  This  sentence  may  be  said  to 
be  the  secret  of  Mr.  Meredith's  workmanship.  It  is 
essentially  microscopic,  and  those  who  have  a  suffici- 
ently strong  taste  for  art  to  relish  such  studies  will  find 
"  Rhoda  Fleming  "  very  well  worth  reading.  Besides 
this,  the  story  itself  is  eminently  interesting — almost 
too  interesting,  in  fact,  to  leave  us  tranquil  enough, 
for  the  appreciation  of  the  more  substantial  part 

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XII 

THE  MORNING  POST 

ON 

RHODA  FLEMING 

[The  Manager  of  The  Morning  Post  states  that  according  to  the 
marked  file  of  his  journal  this  review  was  written  by  a  Mr.  Hume.  It 
was  printed  in  the  issue  of  October  18,  1865,  No.  28,658,  p.  2.] 

MR.  MEREDITH'S  story  is  one  of  those  clever  social 
portrait-albums  that  are  taken  up,  not  by  the  thought- 
less and  idle,  but  by  men  and  women  of  genius, 
intellect  and  cultivation.  It  would  be  impossible  to 
find  a  novel  of  the  last  few  years  in  which  more 
attention  has  been  given  to  a  careful  study  of  human 
nature,  and  with  such  marked  success,  as  in  the  pages 
of  "  Rhoda  Fleming."  The  most  insignificant  portrait 
may  be  examined  separately,  and  it  will  be  found  to 
contain  subject-matter  for  analysis  and  reflection. 
Every  phase  of  society  is  depicted — from  the  baronet 
banker  to  the  low,  cunning  pot-house  frequenter. 
High  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  farmer  and  fop,  have 
all  their  places  in  Mr.  Meredith's  gallery ;  and  to  say 
that  not  one  is  distorted  by  over-colouring  is  giving 
him  the  highest  commendation  it  is  possible  to 
bestow.  Mrs.  Lovell,  the  gay,  fashionable,  captivating, 

129  K 


The  Morning  Post 


extravagant,  good-natured  widow,  may  be  seen  every 
day  and  night  of  the  London  season.  Edward 
and  Algernon  will  be  found  in  chambers  at  the 
Temple,  or  strolling  down  Pall-mall  between  four 
and  five  p.m.  daily.  Dahlia  is  a  true  but  sad  picture 
of  the  sufferings  of  one  who  has  gone  astray  from  the 
paths  of  virtue,  and  excites  the  keenest  pity  and 
admiration  in  the  reader — the  former,  because  her 
sorrows  and  trials  are  told  with  such  deep  feeling ; 
the  latter,  because  the  sketch  is  so  painfully  and 
vividly  real.  The  simplicity  and  innocence  of 
Farmer  Fleming  are  exactly  what  might  be  ex- 
pected from  one  whose  knowledge  of  London 
consists  in  knowing  little  more  than  that  there  is 
such  a  place,  and  that  it  contains  an  immense 
number  of  houses,  a  terrific  number  of  men,  women, 
children,  and  horses,  and  a  very  large  share  of  iniquity. 
His  ignorance  of  the  world  and  the  pitfalls  and  snares 
that  surround  youth,  and  his  stolid  determination,  in 
spite  of  everything,  to  believe  his  daughter  an  innocent 
woman,  until  at  last  the  horrible  fact  becomes  too 
patent  to  be  longer  concealed,  are  amongst  the  most 
pleasing  traits  of  his  character.  This  refusal  to  believe 
Dahlia  guilty  is  also  beautifully  shown  in  Rhoda 
Fleming,  his  other  daughter,  who  nobly  battles  on 
behalf  of  her  fallen  sister,  and  devotes  her  life  during 
the  hours  of  tribulation  at  the  farm  to  comfort  and 
solace  the  old  man.  The  contrast  between  Farmer 
Fleming  and  his  cunning  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Anthony 
Hackbut,  a  porter  in  a  London  bank,  who  delights  in 
deceiving  his  country  relative  into  the  belief  that  he 

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on  Rhoda  Fleming 


holds  some  dignified  position  in  Boyne's,  and  is  worth 
enough  sovereigns  to  buy  up  Queen  Anne's  farm  twice 
over,  is  very  artistically  worked  out.  Indeed,  the 
author  seems  to  have  made  old  Hackbut  his  favourite 
character,  for  there  is  even  a  greater  degree  of  finish 
in  his  portrait  than  in  the  others,  clever  and  complete 
as  they  all  undoubtedly  are.  The  eccentricity  of 
Hackbut  is  not  forced,  and  no  unworthy  tricks  are 
resorted  to  to  make  him  attractive.  And  this  is 
one  of  the  most  commendable  features  in  all  Mr. 
Meredith's  writings — he  prefers  rather  to  let  an 
interest  and  affection  spring  up  between  his  readers 
and  his  characters  that  gradually  ripens  into  admi- 
ration, than  to  invest  them  with  an  immediate  halo 
of  romance  which,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  ends  in 
disgust.  He  never  descends  to  the  low  level  of  those 
excitement-mongers  who  make  a  bloodthirsty  black- 
guard and  an  unscrupulous  villain  a  hero,  nor  does 
he  exalt  his  fallen  heroine  into  an  angel  more  sinned 
against  than  sinning.  True  it  is  that  illness,  and 
penury,  and  misery  are  the  forerunners  of  a  sincere 
repentance  with  Dahlia  Fleming,  and  that  one  is 
compelled  to  feel  sympathy  for  her,  but  it  is  the 
healthy  sympathy  that  suggests,  plans,  and  carries 
out  those  excellent  midnight  meetings  of  the  present 
day  that  are  such  an  honour  to  the  metropolis,  not 
any  morbid  craving  after  the  improper.  Her  con- 
trition is  not  exaggerated,  and  she  stands  prominently 
forward  as  "a  warning  to  deter,"  rather  than  an 
example  to  imitate — and  when,  at  the  close  of  the 
story,  she  resolutely  refuses  to  marry  her  repentant 


The  Morning  Post 


seducer,  and  determines  to  devote  the  remainder  of 
her  life  to  pious  and  good  deeds,  the  author  has 
shown  his  desire  to  paint  life  in  its  true  colours,  and 
not  to  adopt  the  orthodox  system  of  marrying  off 
the  principal  actors  without  any  respect  to  decency 
or  probability. 

Robert  Eccles  and  his  father  Jonathan  are  two 
more  characters  that  must  be  signalled  out  for  special 
mention.  The  former  is  not  only  vigorously  con- 
ceived, but  Mr.  Meredith  never  introduces  him 
without  creating  for  him  some  highly  dramatic  situa- 
tion. Thus,  for  instance,  when  the  quiet,  sedate 
young  apprentice  at  Queen  Anne's  farm  suddenly 
reveals  himself  in  his  true  colours  to  Rhoda  Fleming, 
at  a  moment  when  disgrace  has  come  upon  the 
family,  when  he  pleads  his  love  and  is  met  with  a 
coldness  that  would  have  chilled  one  of  less  firm  a 
disposition,  the  author  could  not  have  conceived 
a  more  striking  point  had  he  been  desirous  of 
writing  the  most  telling  situation  of  a  domestic 
drama.  There  is  a  great  deal  that  is  lovable  about 
Robert  Eccles,  despite  his  weakness  for  drink  and 
his  general  reckless  conduct.  Something  in  him 
reminds  one  of  Mr.  Jefferson's  able  delineation  of 
Rip  Van  Winkle  ;  and  if  the  novel  had  appeared  later, 
Mr.  Meredith  might  possibly  have  been  told  that  he 
had  taken  the  clever  American  actor  as  a  model. 
Jonathan  Eccles  plays  a  subordinate  part,  but  he 
never  comes  upon  the  stage  without  impressing  the 
reader  with  his  life-like  ideality.  A  few  of  the  more 
prominent  characters  only  have  been  dealt  with  in 

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on  Rhoda  Fleming 


this  notice,  though  each  one  is  well  deserving  of 
separate  framing.  There  will  be  many  probably 
who  will  complain  of  the  occasional  difficulty  in 
following  the  thread  of  the  story.  This  is  the 
author's  weak  point,  which  no  doubt  in  future  works 
will  entirely  disappear.  His  fancy  is  so  prolific,  his 
humour  so  genuine,  and  his  command  of  language 
so  great  that  he  gives  rein  to  his  pen,  and  goes 
bounding  along,  carrying  his  reader  with  him  until 
he  suddenly  finds  "  a  check,"  and  has  to  retrace  his 
steps  to  pick  up  "  the  secret."  But  when  found  he 
starts  off  again,  and  one  of  the  best  of  his  many 
admirable  points  is  that  he  never  stumbles  into  the 
dulness  of  ditch  water,  or  rushes  at  a  gate  whose 
bars  are  the  cardinal  vices.  In  these  days  of  murder, 
bigamy,  forgery,  and  bastardy  his  book  comes  like 
a  fresh,  healthy,  invigorating  breeze  from  the  country, 
and  any  minor  faults  that  it  may  contain  will  be 
cheerfully  forgiven  on  account  of  the  honest  en- 
thusiasm and  the  vigorous  style  in  which  he  depicts 
scenes  of  English  country  life.  It  is  true  that  he 
does  not  make  a  fast  young  lady  push  any  one 
down  a  well,  that  strychnine  and  nux  vomica  are 
not  introduced  into  any  of  his  pages,  and  that 
bigamy  is  only  administered  in  a  very  small  dose 
indeed  ;  but,  for  all  that,  "  Rhoda  Fleming "  never 
flags  in  interest,  and  it  may  be  added — what  can  be 
said  of  few  novels — that  many  a  profitable  lesson  may 
be  learnt  from  its  perusal.  Mr.  Meredith  may  be  cor- 
dially congratulated  on  having  produced  a  story  with 
so  few  blemishes  and  so  many  excellent  qualities. 

133 


VITTORIA 


XIII 

THE  SATURDAY  REVIEW 

ON 

VITTORIA 

[From   The  Saturday  Review,  vol.   23,  No.  588,   pp.  149-150, 
February  2,  1867.] 

IT  is  a  somewhat  difficult  task  to  give  a  fair  review 
of  a  book  in  which  there  is  apparently  a  wide  dis- 
proportion between  the  expenditure  of  ability  and 
the  result  obtained.  In  the  not  uncommon  case 
where  the  popularity  of  an  author  exceeds  what 
would  seem  to  be  his  due,  the  critic  cannot  but  feel 
a  certain  diffidence  ;  he  may  be  demolishing  a  wind- 
bag, but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  may  be  merely 
giving  another  example  of  the  occasional  inferiority 
of  the  cultivated  to  the  popular  judgment.  Con- 
temporary reviews  of  Keats  and  Wordsworth  still 
unpleasantly  shake  the  general  belief  in  critical 
infallibility.  In  the  reverse  case  the  task  is  less 
invidious.  A  compliment  thrown  away  can  at  any 
rate  do  no  harm  ;  but  there  is  still  an  unpleasant 
sensation  that  there  must  be  some  undiscovered 
flaw  in  the  criticism.  It  is  the  exception  for  a 
writer  to  display  much  ability  in  any  direction 

137 


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without  obtaining  a  fair  amount  of  recognition,  and 
it  is  therefore  incumbent  upon  any  one  who  asserts 
the  existence  of  talent  which  has  failed  of  due 
appreciation  to  point  out  the  circumstances  to  which 
the  failure  is  due.  This  is  a  short  statement  of  the 
duty  we  have  to  discharge  to  Mr.  Meredith.  There  can 
be  no  mistake  either  as  to  his  abilities,  or  as  to  his 
failure  in  obtaining  a  corresponding  place  in  popular 
esteem.  In  "Vittoria,"  which  is  just  republished 
from  the  Fortnightly  Review^  he  has  shown  as  much 
power  of  thought  and  style  as  would  fit  out  a  dozen 
writers  of  sensation  novels.  There  is  scarcely  a  page 
in  which  there  is  not  evidence  of  originality,  and, 
what  is  much  rarer,  of  conscientious  labour,  often 
skilfully  applied.  The  conversations,  instead  of  being 
the  slipshod  collections  of  says-he's  and  says-she's 
with  which  most  novelists  eke  out  their  narrow 
materials,  are  only  too  pointed  and  vigorous  for  the 
interlocutors.  Almost  every  character  stands  out 
distinctly  and  forcibly ;  some  show  great  originality 
of  conception.  The  descriptions,  again,  of  natural 
scenery  are  really  picturesque  and  compact,  instead 
of  being  diluted  verbiage  spun  out  at  random.  Yet, 
with  all  these  merits,  and  we  might  conscientiously 
speak  of  others,  we  fear  that  Mr.  Meredith's  novel 
has  the  unmistakable  fault  of  being  hard  to  read. 
It  is  often  so  clever  as  to  be  on  the  verge  of  genius, 
but  somehow  we  don't  get  on  with  it.  It  is  a  suc- 
cession of  brilliancies  which  are  never  fused  into  a 
brilliant  whole  ;  and  it  is  cram  full  of  smart  sayings 
which  have  an  awkward  way  of  just  stopping  short 

138 


on  Vittoria 

of  the  intelligible.  We  have,  in  short,  that  un- 
pleasant sensation  which  is  sometimes  produced  by 
the  talk  of  a  very  clever  man  who  wants  to  be  a 
little  cleverer  still,  who  overstrains  himself  in  the 
effort  to  be  exceedingly  smart,  and  ends  by  talking 
something  which  neither  he  nor  his  company  quite 
understand,  which  simple  persons  assume  to  be 
wonderful  because  it  is  not  quite  intelligible,  and 
which  nobody  finds  to  be  genuinely  entertaining. 

The  first  thing  which  strikes  the  reader,  in  con- 
sidering this  phenomenon,  is  the  curious  nature  of 
Mr.  Meredith's  style.  It  gives  us  the  impression  of 
prose  striving  to  be  poetry.  It  has  the  compressions, 
the  odd  turns,  and  sometimes  almost  the  rhythm  of 
poetry,  though  it  never  quite  gets  its  feet  off  the 
ground.  To  quote  a  few  sentences  almost  at  random, 
a  man  is  described  as  "flashing  a  white  fist  and 
thumping  the  long  projection  of  his  knee  with  a 
wolfish  aspect."  With  an  imperceptible  change  this 
might  be  a  fragment  of  blank  verse.  A  woman  lifted 
over  a  precipice  "felt  the  saving  hold  of  her  feet 
plucked  from  her,  with  all  the  sinking  horror,  and 
bit  her  underlip,  as  if  keeping  in  the  scream  with 
bare  stitches."  Then  we  are  told  that  "the  pale 
spiked  dialogue  broke,  not  to  be  revived  " ;  we  hear 
of  a  "spirit  writhing  in  the  serpent  coil  of  fiery 
blushes  "  ;  or  are  informed  concerning  a  gentleman 
who  had  good  reasons  for  feeling  that  the  hours 
passed  slowly,  that  "the  face  of  time  had  been 
imaged  like  the  withering  masque  of  a  corpse  to 
him."  These  sentences  may  perhaps  read,  in  their 

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The  Saturday  Review 


detached  shape,  something  like  the  ordinary  fine 
writing  of  inferior  novelists ;  but  in  fact  they  are 
genuine  attempts  to  express  something  forcibly,  and 
seem  to  be  natural  in  Mr.  Meredith.  The  only  fault 
we  find  with  them  is  that  they  imply  an  effort  to  put 
more  into  a  quiet  prose  sentence  than  it  can  contain, 
with  the  natural  result  of  making  it  cramped  and 
uncomfortable.  A  similar  defect  may  be  traced  in 
Mr.  Meredith's  dialogues.  As  we  have  said,  they  are 
never  trivial  or  commonplace.  His  characters  do 
not  talk,  as  Mr.  Trollope's  so  often  contrive  to  do, 
down  half  a  page  in  asking  for  a  cup  of  tea  or  a  rail- 
way-ticket. But  their  smart  sayings  are  so  full  of 
epigram  and  hidden  allusion  and  indirect  satire  that 
we  often  feel  a  little  oppressed  by  their  wisdom,  and 
venture  to  doubt  whether  Mr.  Meredith  quite  under- 
stands it  himself.  Here  is  a  bit  of  the  "  pale  spiked 
dialogue."  Some  one  mentions,  with  a  hidden 
sarcasm,  that  bullfinches  should  be  fed  on  grapes 
before  singing.  Another  replies : — 

" c  To  make  them  exhibit  the  results,  you  withdraw  the 
benefit  suddenly,  of  course  ? ' 

" '  We  imitate  the  general  run  of  Fortune's  gifts  as  much 
as  we  can/  said  Merthyr. 

"  '  That  is  the  training  for  little  shrill  parrots ;  we  have 
none  in  Italy,'  Laura  sighed,  mock  dolefully;  'I  fear  the 
system  would  fail  among  us.' 

" '  It  certainly  would  not  build  Como  villas,'  said  Lena. 

"  Laura  cast  sharp  eyes  on  her  pretty  face. 

" '  It  is  adapted  for  caged  voices  that  are  required  to 
chirrup  to  tickle  the  ears  of  boors.' " 

140 


on  Vittoria 

We  fully  admit  that  this  sarcasm  is  so  refined  as  to 
be  almost  beyond  us.  If  we  had  room  for  the  con- 
text, our  readers  might  be  quicker;  meanwhile  we 
can  only  mention  that  it  has  some  reference  to  an 
Italian  cantatrice  who  is  present.  The  defect  in  this 
writing  is  obvious ;  it  is  laborious,  and  yet  the 
labour  has  not  been  carried  far  enough.  A  little 
less  effort  might  have  left  it  easy ;  a  little  more 
might  possibly  make  it  at  once  polished  and  intel- 
ligible. It  is  a  great  mistake,  in  blacking  boots, 
to  leave  off  just  before  they  begin  to  shine,  for 
then  all  the  previous  labour  is  thrown  away ;  in 
literature  it  seems  to  be  not  merely  thrown  away, 
but  actually  prejudicial.  The  truth  seems  to  be 
that  Mr.  Meredith  has  one  of  those  restless  minds 
which  have  an  ever  exaggerated  fear  of  becoming 
a  bore.  There  is  no  due  repose  in  his  writing  ;  and 
yet,  though  he  is  always  bristling  with  point,  he 
has  hardly  enough  patience  to  obtain  a  thoroughly 
satisfactory  result. 

When  we  come  to  his  plot  and  his  characters,  a 
similar  weakness  appears  even  more  decidedly.  The 
plot  is  by  far  the  weakest  part  of  the  book.  We 
have  studied  it  with  due  attention,  but  must  confess 
ourselves  baffled.  The  main  design  is  indeed  evident 
enough.  Vittoria  is  a  noble  Italian  woman  with  a 
marvellous  voice.  She  is  to  give  a  signal  at  the 
opera  for  the  rising  in  Milan  during  the  troubles  of 
1849.  The  signal  rather  misses  fire,  owing  to  a 
bewildering  complication  of  plots  and  counterplots, 
and  Vittoria  is  herself  suspected  ;  she  is,  however, 

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The  Saturday  Review 


loved  by  a  young  noble  who  has  joined  the  con- 
spiracy; and,  after  a  variety  of  troubles  during 
Charles  Albert's  struggle  against  Austria,  she  marries 
him.  He  throws  himself  into  Brescia  previously  to 
its  bombardment,  and  shortly  after  the  battle  of 
Novara  is  captured  by  an  Austrian  detachment  and 
shot.  Before  this  point  is  reached  there  has  been  a 
whirl  of  Italian  patriots,  spies,  and  conspirators,  of 
Austrian  officers  and  duchesses,  and  of  English 
tourists,  working  out  all  kinds  of  complicated 
schemes,  which  absolutely  makes  the  brain  giddy. 
To  determine  who  is  wanting  to  do  what,  at  any 
given  moment,  is  as  difficult  an  intellectual  employ- 
ment as  hunting  out  a  railway  puzzle  in  Bradshaw 
or  solving  a  chess  problem.  The  relations  of  every 
one  to  his  or  her  neighbour  depend  upon  so  many 
delicate  strings  that  we  should  be  quite  content  to 
take  Mr.  Meredith's  own  account  of  their  purposes. 
But  here  he  unfortunately  fails  us ;  he  has  evidently 
studied  his  own  plot  so  carefully  that  it  probably 
seems  as  plain  to  him  as  the  chess  problem  would 
to  Mr.  Morphy.  He  can  work  it,  so  to  speak,  with- 
out seeing  the  board ;  whereas  we  should  require  a 
careful  study  before  we  could  call  to  mind  the  relative 
action  of  the  pieces.  And  thus  he  makes  demands 
upon  the  attention  of  his  readers  of  which  he  is 
probably  not  aware.  Indeed,  he  is  so  familiar  with 
the  incidents  that  he  sometimes  forgets  to  make 
them  plain,  even  when  he  is  relating  them.  Thus 
an  important  scene  is  described  as  follows — Rinaldo, 
we  should  say,  being  a  conspirator,  and  presumably 

142 


on  Vittoria 

an  assassin,  in  Austrian  hands,  and  the  woman  an 
Italian  acquaintance : — 

"  Then  a  procession  walked  some  paces  on.  The  woman 
followed.  She  fell  prostrate  at  the  feet  of  Count  Karl  (the 
Austrian  commander).  He  listened  to  her  and  nodded. 
Rinaldo  stood  alone  with  bandaged  eyes.  The  woman 
advanced  to  him  ;  she  put  her  mouth  on  his  ear  ;  there  she 
hung.  Vittoria  heard  a  single  shot.  Rinaldo  lay  stretched 
upon  the  ground,  and  the  woman  stood  over  him." 

We  confess  that,  after  reading  this  account  carefully, 
we  could  not  make  out  what  had  happened.  And 
our  perplexity  was  not  quite  dispelled  until  the  end 
of  the  next  volume,  in  spite  of  one  intermediate  ex- 
planation. It  then  turned  out  that  the  woman,  who 
was  a  great  admirer  of  Rinaldo,  had  shot  him  by 
leave  of  Count  Karl,  to  save  him  from  the  shame  of 
execution ;  and,  further,  that  this  benevolent  action 
had  been  imposed  upon  her  by  her  husband,  who 
was  a  great  conspirator,  as  a  punishment  for  having 
previously  disobeyed  him  in  helping  Rinaldo  to 
escape.  Now  this  is  a  dramatic  incident,  and  one 
which,  in  the  hands  of  many  writers,  would  have  led 
up  to  absurd  sensational  writing.  That  would  doubt- 
less have  been  objectionable,  but  it  is  as  unreasonable 
in  a  different  way  to  tell  the  story  so  that  we  don't 
quite  know  whether  it  has  happened  or  not. 

The  difficulty  thus  produced  in  following  Mr. 
Meredith  is  aggravated  in  still  another  way.  The 
characters,  as  we  have  said,  are  really  very  clever, 
and  some  perhaps  deserve  a  stronger  epithet.  But 

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The  Saturday  Review 


we  must  really  object  to  the  eccentric  way  in  which 
they  make  their  exits  and  their  entrances.  Some  of 
them  are  formally  introduced  to  us  in  the  good  old- 
fashioned  way,  and  we  feel  that  it  is  our  own  fault  if 
we  do  not  afterwards  succeed  in  identifying  them. 
But  others  drop  in,  as  it  were,  accidentally,  and  the 
reader  is  expected  to  be  perfectly  familiar  with  their 
tastes  and  peculiarities.  Some  of  them,  it  seems, 
have  appeared  in  a  former  novel  of  Mr.  Meredith's, 
but  that  is  no  justification  for  spoiling  one  which 
should  be  complete  in  itself.  As  we  have,  we  must 
confess,  the  misfortune  of  not  being  familiar  with 
"  Emilia  Wyndham,"  we  cannot  explain  the  evident 
affection  with  which  the  author  regards  certain  sub- 
ordinate actors  in  the  story.  Their  previous  history 
may  be  a  sufficient  justification  to  Mr.  Meredith 
himself,  but  it  is  an  artistic  fault  when  the  first  and 
second  conspirators  and  all  the  mere  walking  gentle- 
men are  portrayed  with  as  much  care  as  the  hero  and 
heroine.  It  adds  to  the  distracting  effect  of  the  plot, 
of  which  we  never  know  very  well  what  is  the  main 
thread  and  what  is  merely  incidental,  that  we  are  in 
equal  ignorance  as  to  the  relative  importance  of  the 
characters.  The  interest  is  too  much  dispersed 
already  by  the  nature  of  the  story,  and  this  system 
tends  rather  to  increase  the  dispersion.  With  all 
this  fault-finding,  however,  we  must  add  that  the 
characters  are,  in  our  opinion,  the  strongest  point  of 
Mr.  Meredith's  very  clever,  though  rather  unreadable, 
performance,  and  that  if  two  or  three  of  them  were 
extracted  from  the  labyrinth  in  which  they  are 

144 


on  Vittoria 

placed,  and  set  to  turn  some  simple  machinery,  they 
would  make  a  far  more  interesting  story. 

We  must  conclude  by  one  more  very  obvious 
though  unfavourable  piece  of  criticism ;  which  is, 
that  a  writer  imposes  a  great  additional  burden  upon 
himself  when  he  takes  for  the  scene  of  his  story  a 
country  and  time  with  which  most  of  his  readers  are 
little  familiar,  and  as  to  which — to  state  a  far  more 
important  objection — his  own  mind  can  scarcely  be 
saturated  with  knowledge  up  to  the  proper  point. 
The  greater  triumphs  of  fiction  are  certainly  won  on 
ground  with  which  both  writers  and  readers  are 
thoroughly  familiar,  and  it  wants  no  great  philosophy 
to  see  the  reason.  Mr.  Meredith,  already  so  incom- 
prehensible to  the  vulgar,  can  scarcely  afford  to  carry 
extra  weight  without  absolute  necessity. 


145 


XIV 


[From   The  Athetuzum,  No.  2052,  February  23,  1867,  pp.  248- 
249-3 

"ViTTORlA"  is  the  continuation  of  a  work  by  the  same 
author,  published  some  years  ago,  called  "Emilia  in 
England."  The  same  characters  are  introduced  ;  but, 
with  the  exception  of  Emilia  herself,  who  is  again 
the  heroine,  under  the  name  of  Vittoria,  the  leading 
personages  of  the  former  novel  are  mere  accessories 
to  the  present  story.  Wilfred  Pole,  who  was  Emilia's 
lover,  and  who  did  not  behave  very  chivalrously,  is,  as 
Wilfred  Pierson,  a  lieutenant  in  the  Austrian  service, 
a  useful  subordinate  in  the  drama.  The  present 
novel  is  the  whole  drama  of  the  Italian  rising  in 
1848,  carried  along  from  its  outbreak  until  the  fatal 
battle  of  Novara.  The  work  evinces  knowledge  on 
the  part  of  the  author  of  Italian  life  as  well  as  of 
Italian  revolutionary  politics.  All  the  documents, 
letters,  intentions,  and  counter-intentions,  of  the 
centres  and  head-centres  of  the  revolution,  seem  to 
have  been  laid  at  the  author's  disposal,  and  he,  to  judge 

146 


Gcraldine  Endsor  Jewsbury  on  Vittoria 

by  the  result  in  his  book,  must  have  made  a  good 
use  of  them.   The  seething  and  surging  of  the  revolu- 
tionary movement  are  well  caught ;   but  the  reader 
is  lost  in  the  maze  of  events,  and  confused  by  the 
movements  hither  and  thither  of  the  excited  actors, 
both  Austrian  and  Italian.     There  are  dramas  within 
dramas ;  hopes  and  fears,  loves  and  hatreds,  private 
and  political ;  the  movements  of  armies  ;  "  trumpets, 
alarums,   excursions    and    retreats,"    battles,  single 
combats,  not  a  few  duels, — to  say  nothing  of  the 
histories,  tales  and  reports  told  by  one  person  to 
others  with  the  vehemence   of  intense  personality. 
The  personages  of  the  drama,  or  rather  panorama, 
get  incidentally  involved  in  events,  which  are  life  or 
death  to  the  parties  concerned,  but  which  have  only 
a  slight  bearing  on  the  fortunes  of  the  story.    Such  is 
Wilfred  Pierson's  night  adventure,  when  he  is  forced 
to  enter  a  house  to  assist  the  Austrian  lover  of  an 
Italian   lady  to   escape  from   the   men  who   have 
surrounded  the  house  to  kill  him  as  he  comes  out. 
No  mortal  memory  can  keep  in  mind  the  Lauras, 
the  Amalias,   the   Leckensteins,   the  Violettas,  the 
Austrians  pure  and  simple,  the  Austrianized  Italians, 
the  prudent  Italians,  the  patriots,  the  conspirators. 
Opera  politics  and  intrigues  are  superadded;  for  is 
there  not  a  Signora  Irma  de  Karski,  a  rival  prima 
donna,  who  hates  Vittoria  as  a  woman  and  a  singer ! 
How  are  human  beings  with  limited  faculties  to  under- 
stand all  the  distracting  threads  of  this  unmerciful 
novel  ?    But,  then,  by  way  of  compensation,  each 
episode  has  its  own  interest,  and  the  most  insignificant 

147 


Geraldine  Endsor  Jewsbury 


personage  has  the  stamp  of  being  a  genuine  human 
being,  and  not  a  lay  figure.    One  of  the  best  and  most 
individual  portraits  is  that  of  Barto  Rizzo,  the  con- 
spirator.  He  is  the  type  of  the  man  who  cares  for  his 
own  way,  and  who  will  sacrifice  a  cause  to  his  own 
prejudices  ;  yet  he  is  honest  and  energetic,  if  untract- 
able  and   perverse,  and   doing   more  mischief  than 
good.     Luighi,  the  spy,  is  also  an  excellent  sketch  of 
a  supple  Italian,  with  a  turn  for  roguery,  and  yet 
capable  of  honesty  when  his  heart  is  touched.     The 
first  scene  between   Luighi   and   Barto  Rizzo  is  a 
comedy  containing  the  germs  of  a  tragedy,  which  is 
worked  out  to  the  sorrowful  end.    Vittoria  has  been 
chosen  to  make  her  debut  at  La  Scala,  in  an  opera 
written  by  her  lover,  Count  Carlo  Ammiani,  which  is 
full  of  revolutionary  meaning,  but  so  veiled  that  it 
has  passed  the  Censorship ;  but  in  the  end  she  is  to 
sing  a  patriotic  song,  not  set  down  in  the  libretto, 
which   is  to   be   the   signal  for   the   insurrection  in 
Milan.     There  are  signals  all  over  the  country,  by 
which   the  rising   is  to   be    simultaneous.      All    is 
arranged,  and  all  is  going  well,  when  Vittoria  recog- 
nizes some  English  visitors,  her  old  English  friends, 
and  their  brother  Wilfred,  now  an  Austrian  officer. 
In   her  desire  to   save  them   from    the  terror  and 
confusion   of  the  outbreak,   she  writes   a   letter  of 
warning  to  Wilfred,  not  unlike  the  famous  one  sent 
in  the  Guy  Fawkes  conspiracy,  and  which,  according 
to  popular  tradition,  led  to  the  discovery  of  the  plot. 
This  comes  to  the  knowledge  of  Barto  Rizzo ,  who 
takes  his  own   measures  to  secure  the  letter,  and 

148 


on  Vittoria 

having  read  it,  he  denounces  Vittoria  as  a  traitress. 
The  rising  is  put  off ;  the  whole  plan  is  thrown  into 
confusion — some  wishing  to  go  on,  others  to  draw 
back.  Signer  Antonio  Pericles,  the  Greek  fanatic 
for  music,  whom  the  readers  of  "  Emilia  in  England  " 
have  met  before,  institutes  a  small  plot  of  his  own,  to 
have  her  carried  off  to  an  Austrian  fortress,  where 
she  will  be  kept  safe  and  out  of  mischief.  There  is 
much  complication  about  this  little  plot,  and  it  has 
fibres  which  extend  far  and  wide,  and  eventually  it 
has  serious  results.  The  Austrian  authorities  are  on 
the  alert,  the  city  is  in  a  ferment.  Vittoria  appears, 
carries  the  house  by  storm,  sings  the  patriotic  song, 
and,  rousing  the  people  to  madness,  she  has  to  be 
smuggled  out  of  the  city,  for  the  Austrians  dare  not 
seize  her;  but  the  insurrection  that  had  been  planned 
for  that  night  has  collapsed.  Vittoria  wanders  about 
in  the  most  perplexing  manner,  finding  herself  in 
Turin  with  Charles  Albert,  following  his  army, 
helping  the  wounded  on  the  field  of  battle,  carried 
off  once  more  by  the  amusing  Signor  Pericles,  whose 
distraction  at  the  carelessness  with  which  she  risks 
the  loss  of  her  voice  is  a  comic  relief.  She  meets 
her  lover,  and  has  an  interview  with  him  on  a 
battle-field.  Then  she  is  spirited  away  again — Barto 
Rizzo  doing  mischief  all  the  time,  and  other  enemies 
and  false  friends  working  at  cross-purposes.  There 
is  an  excellent  and  spirited  account  of  the  campaign 
— the  brief  success,  the  bright  hopes,  the  final  failure. 
Carlo  and  Vittoria  are  married,  live  together  a  few 
happy  months,  and  then  in  another  unsuccessful 

149 


Geraldine  Endsor  Jewsbury  on  Vittoria 

conspiracy  Carlo  falls — a  victim  to  the  insane  suspi- 
cion of  Barto  Rizzo.  Wilfred  Pierson,  who  has  done 
good  service  as  a  patient  ass,  marries  the  Austrian 
lady  to  whom  he  was  betrothed.  Vittoria  lives  like 
a  heroine,  and  brings  up  her  young  son  to  be  a  hero, 
and  the  curtain  drops  on  the  end  of  the  first  Italian 
deliverance  in  1858.  The  book  is  well  and  carefully 
written,  though  the  affectations  of  style  and  speech 
are  many  and  various.  There  is  an  air  of  effort, 
which  gives  a  sense  of  fatigue  to  the  reader,  greater 
even  than  the  marches  and  counter-marches,  the 
journeys,  flights,  and  returns  ;  but  the  book  is  a  piece 
of  good  and  honest  hard  work.  For  such  as  care  to 
hear  about  the  state  of  Italy  and  the  Italians  in  the 
last  years  of  Austrian  rule,  "  Vittoria  "  will  be  a  book 
they  can  read. 


150 


THE   ADVENTURES  OF   HARRY 
RICHMOND 


XV 
THE  DAILY  NEWS 

ON 

THE  ADVENTURES   OF  HARRY 
RICHMOND 

[From  The  Daily  Wm<st  No.  7963,  p.  2,  November  6,  1871.] 

MR.  GEORGE  MEREDITH'S  new  novel,  "  The  Adven- 
tures of  Harry  Richmond  "  (London  :  Smith,  Elder  & 
Co.),  is  a  remarkable  book.  Deep  thoughts  all  aglow 
with  physical  colour,  an  elliptical  power  of  language 
which  is  sometimes  betrayed  into  obscurity,  cynicism 
tempered  by  a  large-hearted  sympathy  with  human 
failure — these  are  the  usual  characteristics  of  Mr. 
George  Meredith's  works ;  but  in  "  Harry  Rich- 
mond "  he  has  expressed  his  genius  with  unwonted 
clearness,  and,  under  the  guise  of  a  romance,  has 
worked  out  a  careful  study  in  moral  physiology. 
Mr.  Roy  Richmond  inherits  kingly  vices  and  kingly 
graces  from  a  Royal  father  ;  had  he  inherited  his 
father's  rank  in  life  he  would  have  outdone  him  in 
courtliness  and  profligacy.  There  are  sparks  of 
chivalry  in  his  nature  which  redeem  some  of  its  mire, 
but  these  he  probably  derived  from  his  mother,  who 
was  not  Royal.  In  Andersen's  quaint  fable  the 

153 


The  Daily  News 


inappropriate  yearning  of  the  snow-man  to  the  fire- 
stone  is  explained  at  the  former's  dissolution  by  the 
fact  of  his  having  had  a  fire  shovel  for  backbone. 
" '  That's  what  moved  within  him,'  said  the  yard  dog," 
and  what  moved  within  Mr.  Roy  Richmond  was  a 
perverse  leaning  towards  the  insignia  of  a  rank  that 
was  his  by  law  of  blood  only.  To  lord  it  graciously 
over  his  fellow-creatures,  to  enjoy  pleasure  by  right, 
to  shine,  chief  gaud  in  a  pageant — such  was  his 
ambition,  and  to  it  he  sacrificed  all  man's  highest 
nobility.  Poets  and  novelists  have  delighted  in 
examples  of  occult  sympathy  with  ancient  phases 
of  existence.  We  are  told  of  gipsy  girls  trained  to 
luxurious  lives  who  flit  from  their  palace  balconies  to 
gain  the  warmth  of  the  fires  that  scar  green  lanes, 
and  we  have  numerous  works  of  fiction  where  the 
finer  and  more  delicate  qualities  of  high  lineage  lend 
grace  to  careers  weighed  by  oppression  and  disaster  ; 
but  Mr.  Meredith's  idea  is  as  original  as  it  is  power- 
fully expressed.  He  shows  in  Roy  Richmond  the 
canker  of  hereditary  vices  unobscured  by  the  splendour 
of  hereditary  pride  of  place.  Inheriting  a  grand 
manner  and  a  moral  nature  decayed  to  the  core,  he 
fares  ill  in  the  work-a-day  world  of  simple,  manly 
truth  and  self-relying  toil.  There  is  a  scenic  glamour 
in  him  for  most  women  and  for  many  men,  but  the 
reader  can  criticise  the  tawdry  reality  and  estimate 
at  its  full  strength  the  contrast  afforded  to  it  by 
rough  Squire  Beltham.  These  two  men,  differing  as 
rock  and  quicksand,  are  the  real  heroes  of  the  book. 
As  single  studies  of  character  each  would  have  been 

154 


on  The  Adventures  of  Harry  Richmond 

admirable,  but  brought  into  direct  antagonism  they 
are  masterpieces.  The  vigour  of  the  one  delineation 
never  flags,  the  minute  touches  that  go  to  make  up 
the  other  never  lose  their  delicacy.  The  only  blot 
in  the  treatment  of  the  old  squire  is  his  abrupt 
departure  from  the  scene.  It  is  as  if  a  window  were 
suddenly  shut  and  a  blast  of  healthy  sea  air  walled 
out.  Such  a  man's  death  would  have  been  as  charac- 
teristic as  his  life.  Ottilia  also  secedes  from  the 
story  in  an  unsatisfactory  manner.  Her  first  appear- 
ance is  brilliant  and  picturesque — she  is  an  Undine 
piquant  with  worldly  wit.  Carried  to  the  end,  she 
would  have  been  an  excellent  foil  to  English  Janet 
Ilchester ;  but  she  is  gone  as  suddenly  as  if  she  were 
in  truth  a  water  sprite  vanishing  in  foam,  and  she 
only  reappears  in  the  last  act  of  the  story — a  sort  of 
fable  of  herself — a  beneficent  shadow  whose  mission 
it  is  to  join  hands  and  invoke  blessings  on  the  prin- 
cipal character,  like  the  good  fairy,  beautiful  but 
misty,  in  a  transformation  scene.  Possibly  the  author 
had  not  the  power  nor  the  patience  to  tell  much  of 
this  prismatic  nature.  Ottilia  was  one  of  those 
women  whom  men  love  passionately  and  know  very 
little  about.  Once  in  a  life  a  man  may  see  such  a 
face — in  lonely  glimpses  ;  hear  such  a  voice — a  music 
broken  by  long  pauses  of  absence.  She  creates  a 
tropical  storm  in  his  imagination ;  he  gives  her  his 
dreams,  thinks  he  must  die  for  want  of  her,  and  lives 
to  take  a  Janet  Ilchester  to  wife.  Janet  is  of  the 
type  most  Englishmen  desire  to  have  their  wives, 
although  human  weakness  may  lead  their  erring 

155 


The  Daily  News  on  Harry  Richmond 

fancy  towards  an  Ottilia.  We  have  no  space  to 
dilate  on  Janet's  excellently  drawn  if  not  super- 
attractive  portrait,  nor  to  do  more  than  hint  of  the 
exquisite  sketch  of  the  gipsy  Kiomi.  The  book 
abounds  in  varied  and  incisive  descriptions  of  cha- 
racter. Not  a  page  can  be  read  carelessly ;  its 
profound  philosophy,  its  almost  excess  of  subtlety 
command  attention  and  generate  thought,  while  the 
sensitiveness  to  nature's  beauties  which  vibrates  like 
a  passion  throughout  the  work,  and  the  deep  under- 
glow  of  its  human  sympathy,  complete  the  attrac- 
tions of  a  book  in  every  sense  remarkable, 


156 


XVI 

RICHARD   HOLT   HUTTON 

ON 

THE  ADVENTURES   OF   HARRY 
RICHMOND 

[From  Tte  Spectator^  vol.  45,  No.  2273,  pp.  79-80,  January  20, 
1872.] 

THIS  book  shows  originality,  wealth  of  conception, 
genius,  and  not  a  little  detailed  knowledge  of  the 
world ;  the  outline  of  the  tale  is  bold  and  flowing, 
and  the  individual  figures  are  painted  with  con- 
siderable, though  unequal  skill ;  some  of  the  scenes 
are  full  of  force  of  a  very  unusual  kind,  and  some 
are  touched  with  a  real  delicacy  and  tenderness ; 
and  yet  it  would  be  far  truer  to  say  that  it  has  the 
stuff  for  half-a-dozen  first-rate  novels  in  it,  than  that 
it  is  a  first-rate  novel  itself.  It  wants,  in  the  first 
instance,  movement,  stream,  current,  narrative-flow, 
and  secondly,  something  of  ease  and  simplicity  of 
style.  We  are  late  in  reviewing  it,  but,  to  say  the 
truth,  it  is  a  novel  which  invites  delay  rather  than 
prompts  rapidity.  In  spite  of  its  animation  and  its 
fullness  of  life,  it  is  very  slow  reading,  for  more  than 
one  reason.  There  is  an  allusiveness  and  occasionally 

157 


Richard  Holt  Hutton 


also  an  affectation  of  affluent  expressiveness  about 
the  manner  of  the  author  which  are  provoking,  and 
induce  one  to  throw  the  book  aside  for  a  time  from 
vexation  at  its  assumption.  But  this  is  not  the 
principal  reason  for  the  manifold  retardations  with 
which  the  reader  meets.  These  are  mainly  due  to 
the  diminishing  instead  of  the  increasing  interest  of 
the  tale  as  it  proceeds,  and  the  want  of  clear  relation 
between  the  different  parts  of  it.  The  enormous 
expansion  of  the  social  finesse  in  the  least  interesting 
part,  and,  perhaps  above  all,  the  little  sympathy  we 
have  with  the  hero  of  the  autobiography  who  is  the 
connecting-thread  of  the  whole,  and  who,  instead  of 
making  us  feel  eager  about  his  future,  is  always 
giving  us  a  foretaste  of  something  uncomfortable 
and  embarrassing,  destroy  our  interest  in  the  de- 
velopment. Nor  is  that  strong  disposition  to  post- 
pone the  next  chapter,  which  is  due  to  the  hero's 
uncomfortable  complexities  of  inconsistent  obligation, 
in  any  way  overcome  by  the  strength  of  the  sympathy 
one  is  made  to  feel  for  either  of  the  two  young  ladies 
between  whom  he  is  so  good  as  to  divide  his  affection 
with  perplexing  equality.  One  of  them  (Ottilia), 
indeed,  is  a  beautiful  picture,  full  of  clear  intellectual 
grace  and  tender  intensity  ;  but  then  she  is  a  German 
princess,  and  so  much  is  made  of  her  position  and 
of  the  disastrous  character  of  the  mesalliance  she 
is  willing  to  enter  into,  that  she  stands  almost  aloof 
from  the  story,  and  you  hardly  know  whether  she 
herself  does  not  wish  for  some  imperious  call  of 
duty  to  break  off  the  engagement ;  certainly  there 

158 


on  The  Adventures  of  Harry  Richmond 

is  no  glimpse  given  us,  during  the  long  period  of 
her  lover's  absence,  of  any  feeling  in  her  which  tends 
to  make  the  reader  eager  for  a  happy  solution  of 
the  difficulties  of  the  situation.  She  descends  from 
the  clouds,  as  it  were,  whenever  the  hero  is  in  some 
worse  than  usual  trouble,  to  shed  her  benign  affection 
over  him ;  but  the  condescension  is  made  so  much 
of,  and  her  retirement  behind  the  veil  of  the  royal 
caste  is  so  complete  while  it  lasts,  that  one  cannot 
catch  the  smallest  possible  impatience  for  the  issue 
from  the  picture  of  her  gracious  tenderness  and  her 
deep  but  perfectly  self-restrained  and  almost  self- 
condemned  devotedness ;  rather  do  we  feel  disposed 
to  shrink  the  more  from  the  issue,  feeling  a  distinct 
prevision  of  its  uncomfortable  character.  As  for  the 
other  young  lady  (Janet  Ilchester),  we  never  know 
her  well  enough  to  feel  much  interest  in  the  develop- 
ment of  what,  in  her  too,  presents  itself,  with  less 
intelligible  reason,  as  a  curiously  self-contained  and 
sedate  affection.  There  seems  to  be  a  real  want  of 
consistency  too  between  the  rather  repulsive  picture 
of  her  as  a  child,  a  picture  which  makes  her  some- 
what sly  and  very  selfish,  and  the  picture  of  her 
perfect  courage  and  indomitable  resolution  as  a 
woman ;  we  do  not  say  that  the  two  pictures  might 
not  be  reconciled,  but  only  that  they  are  not, — that 
the  graduated  shades  between  them  are  not  supplied, 
and  that  her  love  for  the  hero  is  so  very  imperfectly 
painted,  that  it  is  hardly  possible  to  feel  any  sym- 
pathy with  her  till  within  a  very  few  pages  of  the 
close.  Thus  Harry  Richmond,  the  hero  himself, 

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Richard  Holt  Hutton 


being  radically  uninteresting,  and  his  career  full  of 
moral  awkwardness  of  that  particular  kind  which 
slightly  repel  instead  of  exciting  the  wistful  interest 
of  the  reader,  and  as  the  story  of  neither  of  the 
heroines  with  whom  he  falls  in  love  supplies  in  any 
degree  the  predominant  fascination  in  which  he  him- 
self is  so  deficient,  we  are  left  to  the  extraordinary 
cleverness  of  the  conceptions  of  the  tale  itself  to 
supply  the  want  of  current  in  the  plot, — a  very  poor 
substitute,  if  only  on  this  account,  that  these  con- 
ceptions are  full  of  complexity  and  finesse  which 
rather  exhaust  the  attention  when  made  the  principal 
interests,  instead  of  the  mere  by-play,  of  a  narrative 
otherwise  full  of  forward  movement  and  vivid  interest. 
The  main  intention  of  the  story  is  to  sketch  the 
influence  of  the  hollow  conceit  of  great  descent  on 
the  mind  of  the  hero's  father,  Roy  Richmond  (sup- 
posed to  be  the  son  of  a  Royal  Duke  who  had 
married  privately  without  acknowledging  his  mar- 
riage), a  man  full  of  tact  and  resource  and  social 
ambition  (of  the  poorer  kind), — a  charlatan,  in  fact, 
of  a  large  and  skilful  and  loveable  sort,  with  every 
gift  except  those  which  would  make  him  ashamed 
of  playing  the  actor  all  his  life,  and  especially  of 
playing  the  actor  all  his  life  for  so  trivial  a  prize 
as  the  reluctant  recognition  of  his  birth  by  society 
and  the  Government;  —  and  especially  to  sketch 
this  unreal  kind  of  genius  for  social  magnificence, 
in  direct  contrast  to  the  solid  earthly  character  of 
a  rich,  positive,  passionate,  swearing  old  English 
squire,  —  the  hero's  grandfather,  Squire  Beltham, 

1 60 


on  The  Adventures  of  Harry  Richmond 

whose  daughter  Mr.  Roy  Richmond  has  married 
against  the  Squire's  will.  Between  these  contrasted 
personages,  father  and  grandfather,  an  internecine 
war  for  the  leading  influence  over  the  hero's  body 
and  soul  goes  on  from  the  first  page  to  the  last  of 
the  book.  We  cannot  say  that  so  far  as  the  stage 
of  these  contending  influences  is  laid  in  the  mind 
of  young  Harry  Richmond  we  care  very  much  for 
the  issue, — at  least,  after  the  stage  of  boyhood  is 
past,  a  period  during  which  the  picture  of  the 
struggle  is  drawn  with  great  power  and  effect  But 
the  contrast  between  the  airy,  grandiose,  strategic 
genius  of  the  hare-brained,  but  half-loveable  charlatan 
and  castle-builder,  with  his  magnificent  belief  in  his 
own  destiny,  his  really  grand  play  of  fancy,  and  his 
almost  disinterested  dreams  of  a  great  career  for 
his  son,  and  the  coarse,  warm-hearted,  violent,  narrow, 
successful  old  English  squire,  "acred  up  to  his  lips, 
consolled  up  to  his  chin,"  and  distinguished  in  his 
class  by  the  real  lucidity  of  his  business  mind,  and 
therefore  possessed  with  a  double  intensity  of  loath- 
ing for  the  hollow,  scheming,  and  visionary  pre- 
tensions of  his  son-in-law,  is  drawn  from  beginning 
to  end  with  marvellous  power.  The  two  scenes  in 
which  their  first  and  last  battles  are  fought  at  the 
very  opening  of  the  first  volume  and  towards  the 
close  of  the  third  are  scenes  of  strange  vigour ;  and 
if  connected  together  by  a  plot  half  as  good  as  are 
several  of  the  links  in  it,  they  would  have  been 
remembered  amongst  some  of  the  best  things  in 
English  literature.  But,  as  we  have  intimated,  young 

161  M 


Richard  Holt  Hutton 


Harry  Richmond,  after  he  has  passed  the  boyhood 
stage,  is  not  drawn  with  any  real  power,  while  the 
vast  detail  in  which  his  father's  faculty  for  social 
intrigue  and  the  construction  of  a  grand  plot  is 
developed,  though  full  of  cleverness,  becomes  utterly 
wearisome  before  the  close.  If  a  little  of  the  minute- 
ness of  study  spent  upon  this  no  doubt  very  original, 
but  still  exhaustible  conception,  had  been  devoted 
to  Janet  Ilchester,  the  story  might  have  been  vastly 
improved,  both  by  subtraction  and  by  addition — by 
taking  away  from  the  superfluity  of  an  over-developed 
idea,  and  by  remedying  the  deficiency  of  a  figure 
very  imperfectly  conceived  and  drawn.  Neither  Mr. 
Richmond  nor  Squire  Beltham, — unquestionably  the 
great  figures  of  the  piece, — can  be  fairly  illustrated 
by  any  extract  we  have  space  to  give  ;  but  the  mode 
in  which  the  would-be  royal  charlatan  first  acquired 
his  ascendancy  over  his  son's  mind  is  so  finely  painted, 
and  that,  too,  within  limits  possible  to  a  newspaper, 
that  we  will  illustrate  it  by  giving  the  young  man's 
recollections  of  his  father's  method  of  exciting  in  him 
as  a  child  intense  interest  in  the  grander  episodes  of 
English  literature  and  history : — 

"  He  was  never  away  on  the  Sunday.  Both  of  us  attired 
in  our  best,  we  walked  along  the  streets  hand  in  hand; 
my  father  led  me  before  the  cathedral  monuments,  talking 
in  a  low  tone  of  British  victories,  and  commending  the 
heroes  to  my  undivided  attention.  I  understood  very  early 
that  it  was  my  duty  to  imitate  them.  While  we  remained 
in  the  cathedral  he  talked  of  glory  and  Old  England,  and 
dropped  his  voice  in  the  middle  of  a  murmured  chant  to 

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on  The  Adventures  of  Harry  Richmond 

introduce  Nelson's  name  or  some  other  great  man's :  and 
this  recurred  regularly.  c  What  are  we  for  now  ? '  he  would 
ask  me  as  we  left  our  house.  I  had  to  decide  whether  we 
took  a  hero  or  an  author,  which  I  soon  learnt  to  do  with 
capricious  resolution.  We  were  one  Sunday  for  Shakspeare ; 
another  for  Nelson  or  Pitt.  '  Nelson,  papa,'  was  my  most 
frequent  rejoinder,  and  he  never  dissented,  but  turned  his 
steps  towards  Nelson's  cathedral-dome,  and  uncovered  his 
head  there,  and  said  :  '  Nelson,  then,  to-day ; '  and  we  went 
straight  to  his  monument  to  perform  the  act  of  homage. 
I  chose  Nelson  in  preference  to  the  others  because,  towards 
bed-time  in  the  evening,  my  father  told  me  stories  of  our 
hero  of  the  day,  and  neither  Pitt  nor  Shakspeare  lost  an 
eye,  or  an  arm,  or  fought  with  a  huge  white  bear  on  the 
ice  to  make  themselves  interesting.  I  named  them  occa- 
sionally out  of  compassion,  and  to  please  my  father,  who 
said  that  they  ought  to  have  a  turn.  They  were,  he  told 
me,  in  the  habit  of  paying  him  a  visit,  whenever  I  had 
particularly  neglected  them,  to  learn  the  grounds  for  my 
disregard  of  their  claims,  and  they  urged  him  to  intercede 
with  me,  and  imparted  many  of  their  unpublished  adven- 
tures, so  that  I  should  be  tempted  to  give  them  a  chance 
on  the  following  Sunday.  '  Great  Will,'  my  father  called 
Shakspeare,  and  'Slender  Billy,'  Pitt.  The  scene  where 
Great  Will  killed  the  deer,  dragging  Falstaff  all  over  the 
park  after  it  by  the  light  of  Bardolph's  nose,  upon  which 
they  put  an  extinguisher  if  they  heard  any  of  the  keepers, 
and  so  left  everybody  groping  about  and  catching  the 
wrong  person,  was  the  most  wonderful  mixture  of  fun  and 
tears.  Great  Will  was  extremely  youthful,  but  everybody 
in  the  park  called  him  '  Father  William ; '  and  when  he 
wanted  to  know  which  way  the  deer  had  gone,  King  Lear 
(or  else  my  memory  deceives  me)  punned,  and  Lady 
Macbeth  waved  a  handkerchief  for  it  to  be  steeped  in  the 

163 


Richard  Holt  Hutton 


blood  of  the  deer;  Shylock  ordered  one  pound  of  the 
carcase;  Hamlet  (I  cannot  say  why,  but  the  fact  was 
impressed  on  me)  offered  him  a  three-legged  stool;  and 
a  number  of  kings  and  knights  and  ladies  lit  their  torches 
from  Bardolph ;  and  away  they  flew,  distracting  the  keepers 
and  leaving  Will  and  his  troop  to  the  deer.  That  poor 
thing  died  from  a  different  weapon  at  each  recital,  though 
always  with  a  flow  of  blood  and  a  successful  dash  of  his 
antlers  into  Falstaff ;  and  to  hear  Falstaff  bellow !  But  it 
was  mournful  to  hear  how  sorry  Great  Will  was  over  the 
animal  he  had  slain.  He  spoke  like  music.  I  found  it 
pathetic  in  spite  of  my  knowing  that  the  whole  scene  was 
lighted  up  by  Bardolph's  nose.  When  I  was  just  bursting 
out  crying — for  the  deer's  tongue  was  lolling  out  and  quick 
pantings  were  at  his  side;  he  had  little  ones  at  home — 
Great  Will  remembered  his  engagement  to  sell  Shylock  a 
pound  of  the  carcase ;  determined  that  no  Jew  should  eat 
of  it,  he  bethought  him  that  Falstaff  could  well  spare  a 
pound,  and  he  said  the  Jew  would  not  see  the  difference ; 
Falstaff  only  got  off  by  hard  running  and  roaring  out  that 
he  knew  his  unclean  life  would  make  him  taste  like  pork 
and  thus  let  the  Jew  into  the  trick.  My  father  related  all 
this  with  such  a  veritable  matter-of-fact  air,  and  such  live- 
liness— he  sounded  the  chase  and  its  cries,  and  showed 
King  Lear  tottering,  and  Hamlet  standing  dark,  and  the 
vast  substance  of  FalstafF — that  I  followed  the  incidents 
excitedly,  and  really  saw  them,  which  was  better  than 
understanding  them.  I  required  some  help  from  him  to 
see  that  Hamlet's  offer  of  a  three-legged  stool  at  a  feverish 
moment  of  the  chase  was  laughable.  He  taught  me  what 
to  think  of  it  by  pitching  Great  Will's  voice  high,  and 
Hamlet's  very  low.  By  degrees  I  got  some  unconscious 
knowledge  of  the  characters  of  Shakspeare.  There  never 
was  so  fascinating  a  father  as  mine  for  a  boy  anything 

164 


on  The  Adventures  of  Harry  Richmond 

under  eight  or  ten  years  old.  He  could  guess  on  Saturday 
whether  I  should  name  William  Pitt  on  the  Sunday;  for, 
on  those  occasions,  'Slender  Billy,'  as  I  hope  I  am  not 
irreverent  in  calling  him,  made  up  for  the  dulness  of  his 
high  career  with  a  raspberry-jam  tart,  for  which,  my  father 
told  me  solemnly,  the  illustrious  Minister  had  in  his  day 
a  passion.  If  I  named  him,  my  father  would  say,  '  W.  P., 
otherwise  S.  B.,  was  born  in  the  year  so-and-so;  now,'  and 
he  went  to  the  cupboard,  'in  the  name  of  Politics,  take 
this  and  meditate  upon  him.'  The  shops  being  all  shut  on 
Sunday,  he  certainly  bought  it,  anticipating  me  unerringly, 
on  the  Saturday,  and,  as  soon  as  the  tart  appeared,  we 
both  shouted.  I  fancy  I  remember  his  repeating  a 
couplet, 

'  Billy  Pitt  took  a  cake  and  a  raspberry-jam, 
When  he  heard  they  had  taken  Seringapatam.' 

At  any  rate,  the  rumour  of  his  having  done  so  at  periods 
of  strong  excitement  led  to  the  inexplicable  display  of  fore- 
sight on  my  father's  part." 

That  is  full  of  a  humour  that  one  regards  as  almost 
too  great  to  be  compatible  with  a  mind  so  inflated 
with  grandiose  dreams  as  that  of  the  would-be  royal 
adventurer ;  but  it  is  one  of  the  most  delicate  feats 
of  ability  in  the  book  to  make  us  feel  how  much  of 
true  humour  and  nobility  there  is  combined  with 
Mr.  Roy  Richmond's  theatrical,  pageant-loving  cha- 
racter, and  rather  ignoble  aims.  It  is  impossible  to 
think  of  him  without  his  charlatanerie,  and  yet  it  is 
impossible  to  think  of  him  as  not  possessing  qualities 
both  intellectual  and  emotional  too  good  for  his 
charlatan  schemes, — and  this,  notwithstanding  that 

165 


Richard  Holt  Hutton 


he  himself  never  seems  to  have  the  shadow  of  a 
distrust  of  his  own  aims  from  the  beginning  to  the 
close  of  his  ambitious  career.  So  completely  is  the 
man  a  quasi-royal  adventurer,  a  patron  who  needs 
very  substantial  help,  a  Grand  Seigneur  who  has  to 
depend  for  his  hopes  on  more  solidly  established 
Grands  Seigneurs,  a  man  whose  every  gift,  whose 
elasticity,  whose  willingness  to  stoop  in  order  to 
soar  the  better  in  future,  are  manufactured,  as  it 
were,  to  suit  his  dreams  and  hopes,  that  we  are 
hardly  able  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  to  con- 
ceive of  any  intellectual  or  moral  nature  in  the  man 
independently  of  the  part  he  is  acting.  That  he 
loves  his  son  thoroughly,  and  the  woman  who  re- 
nounced him  for  her  sister's  sake,  is  clear ;  that  he 
can  see  the  absurd  side  of  other  people's  littlenesses 
is  clear  also ;  but  that  he  could  have  any  intellectual 
conviction,  or  moral  conviction,  or  political  conviction 
outside  of  the  exigencies  of  his  part  in  life,  seems 
almost  impossible.  It  need  hardly  be  observed  that 
the  conception  of  such  a  character  is  very  original, 
and  that  the  insanity  in  which  the  author  makes  it 
terminate,  when  the  bubble  bursts,  is  most  truly  as 
well  as  finely  conceived.  Had  but  our  author  spared 
us  half  the  detail ! 

Besides  the  great  charlatan  and  the  great  English 
squire,  there  is  much  in  the  story  to  show  the  author's 
talent.  There  are  even  delicate  touches  here  and 
there, — like  that  which  represents  the  Princess  Ottilia 
as  recurring  to  the  imperfect  English  of  her  child- 
hood's first  acquaintance  with  Harry  Richmond,  when 

1 66 


on  The  Adventures  of  Harry  Richmond 

she  asks  him,  after  his  declaration  of  love,  whether 
he  can  be  patient,  and  adds,  with  tender  humour, 
in  the  precise  form  of  her  former  childish  stiffness, 
"  It  is  my  question ; "  and  again,  like  that  which 
makes  the  poor  old  pretender  to  royal  blood  recall, 
when  all  his  schemes  are  in  ruins,  his  promise  to 
his  old  housekeeper  that  she  should  have  a  memorial 
erected  to  her  by  his  hand,  and  mutter  to  himself, 
"Waddy  shall  have  her  monument."  These  deli- 
cacies of  delineation  are  not  very  common  in  the 
book,  but  the  few  there  are  are  touches  of  real 
genius.  Nor  must  we  forget,  in  enumerating  the 
finer  elements  of  the  book,  the  exquisite  episode  of 
the  child's  runaway  adventure  with  the  gipsy  girl 
Kiomi, — a  picture  almost  as  faithful  and  as  full  of 
colour  and  humour  as  any  to  be  found  in  modern 
literature. 

On  the  other  hand,  as  we  have  said,  the  book 
has  great  faults.  There  is  a  great  exuberance  of 
dull,  protracted,  social  intrigue,  and  a  terrible  flatness 
about  the  hero  himself.  But  worst  of  all  is  the 
want  of  simplicity  of  style  and  the  frequently  false 
and  disagreeable  turns  given  to  expression,  as  when 
the  child  remembers  of  his  schoolmaster's  daughter 
to  whom  he  had  been  talking  of  her  young  lover, 
"she  laughed  and  mouthed  me  over  with  laughing 
kisses ; "  or  again,  when  he  is  falling  in  love  with 
the  Princess  Ottilia,  and  in  answer  to  a  remark  of 
hers  he  is  moved  to  declare  his  passion,  but  does 
not,  a  state  of  feeling  which  he  thus  expresses: — 
"  Something  moved  my  soul  to  lift  wings,  but  the 

167 


Richard  Holt  Hutton  on  Harry  Richmond 

passion  sank."  There  are  plenty  of  illustrations  of 
this  love  of  affectation  in  the  style,  and  still  more 
of  an  apparently  affected  obscurity  of  manner,  which 
tend  to  spoil  a  novel  containing  the  evidence  of 
really  great  powers. 


168 


BEAUCHAMP'S   CAREER 


XVII 


[From  Copts  Tobacco  Plantt  vol.  i.,  No.  75,  p.  910,  June,  1876.] 

As  most  of  our  readers  are  doubtless  aware,  this 
novel  first  appeared  in  the  Fortnightly  Review.  The 
hero  is  a  young  naval  officer  of  good  birth,  who  turns 
Radical,  contests  an  election,  writes  and  lectures,  to 
the  great  disgust  and  annoyance  of  his  kinsfolk  and 
friends,  and  to  his  own  sore  discomfort.  We  have, 
therefore,  keen-witted  remarks  from  persons  of  all 
shades  of  opinion  on  the  state  of  the  country,  our 
national  defences,  the  various  political  parties,  the 
Church,  the  press,  the  aristocracy,  the  middle  class, 
and  the  people.  But  our  author  is  not  the  man  to 
let  his  personages  be  lost  in  the  quagmire  of  politics. 
Most  enthusiasts  exercise  a  special  fascination  over 
women  ;  and  when  an  enthusiast  is  young,  handsome, 
gallant,  well-born  and  well-bred,  the  fascination  is 
prodigious.  So  we  have  the  story  of  Nevil  Beau- 
champ's  loves  and  love -perplexities  told  as  none  but 
George  Meredith  could  tell  it,  with  marvellous 

171 


James  Thomson  on  Beauchamp's  Career 

subtleties  of  insight  and  expression,  and  framed  in 
scenes  such  as  he  alone  can  suggest  in  a  few  swift 
words  instinct  with  spirit  and  luminous  with  beauty. 
His  books  are  not  popular,  being  at  once  too 
abstrusely  thoughtful  and  too  waywardly  humoristic 
for  the  vulgar ;  and  this  one  our  ladies  vehemently 
condemn  for  its  miserable  catastrophe  ;  but  we  can 
cordially  commend  it  and  all  his  works  to  the  medita- 
tive smoker,,  who  grudgeth  not  several  slow  whiffs 
over  a  knotty  point  when  the  knot  is  really  worth 
untying  for  the  sake  of  that  which  it  involves.  Nor 
will  his  sacred  calm  be  perturbed  by  the  bitter  speech 
of  a  married  lady :  "  Two  men  in  this  house  would 
give  their  wives  for  pipes,  if  it  came  to  the  choice. 
We  might  aU  go  for  a  cellar  of  old  wine.  After  forty, 
men  have  married  their  habits,  and  wives  are  only  an 
item  in  the  list,  and  not  the  most  important."  Nor 
will  he  fear  that  when  his  last  breath  is  exhaled  it 
shall  be  said  of  his  relict,  as  of  Louise  Devereux : 
"  She  was  married  to  a  pipe ;  she's  the  widow  of 
Tobacco-ash." 


172 


XVIII 

JAMES  THOMSON 

ON 

BEAUCHAMFS   CAREER 

[This  article  originally  appeared  in  The  Secularist,  June  3,  1876, 
pp.  364-367,  over  the  well-known  initials  "  B.  V."  A  portion  of  it  was 
reprinted,  with  slight  variations,  in  "  Essays  and  Phantasies,"  Reeves 
and  Turner,  iSSl,  pp.  289-295,  under  the  title,  "  A  Note  on  George 
Meredith  (On  the  occasion  of  '  Beauchamp's  Career  ')>"  see  footnote 
on  p.  179.], 

MR.  MEREDITH  stands  among  our  living  novelists 
much  as  Robert  Browning  until  of  late  years  stood 
among  our  living  poets,  quite  unappreciated  by 
the  general  public,  ranked  with  the  very  highest 
by  a  select  few.  One  exception  must  be  made  to 
this  comparison,  an  exception  decidedly  in  favour  of 
the  novelists  and  novel-readers  ;  for  whereas  Tenny- 
son, the  public's  greatest  poet,  is  immeasurably  in- 
ferior to  Browning  in  depth  and  scope  and  power 
and  subtlety  of  intellect,  George  Eliot,  the  public's 
greatest  novelist,  is  equal  in  all  these  qualities,  save 
perhaps  the  last,  to  her  unplaced  rival,  while  having 
the  advantage  in  most  deservedly  popular  quali- 
ties, and  the  clear  disadvantage  in  but  one,  the 
faculty  of  describing  vigorous  or  agonistic  action. 

173 


James  Thomson 


The  thoughtful  few  have  succeeded  in  so  far  impos- 
ing their  judgment  of  Browning  upon  the  thought- 
less many,  that  these  and  their  periodical  organs  now 
treat  him  with  great  respect,  and  try  hard  to  assume 
the  appearance  of  understanding  and  enjoying  him, 
though  doubtless  their  awkward  admiration  is  more 
genuine  in  the  old  sense  of  wonder  or  astonishment 
than  in  the  modern  of  esteem  or  love.  But  the 
thoughtful  few  are  still  far  from  succeeding  to  this 
extent  in  the  case  of  George  Meredith.  Even  literary 
men  are  unfamiliar  with  him.  For  having  in  some 
freak  of  fun  or  irony  specified  only  two  of  his  other 
books,  and  these  among  the  earliest,  on  his  title- 
page  ;  leaving  etcs.  to  represent  "  Farina,"  "  Evan 
Harrington,"  "  The  Adventures  of  Harry  Rich- 
mond," "  Modern  Love,  and  other  Poems,"  with  his 
masterpieces,  "  Emilia  in  England "  and  its  sequel 
"  Vittoria  " ;  he  has  reaped  the  satisfaction  of  learn- 
ing that  many  of  his  well-informed  reviewers  mani- 
festly know  nothing  of  these  obscure  writings.  For 
the  rest,  the  causes  of  his  unpopularity  are  obvious 
enough,  and  he  himself,  as  he  more  than  once  lets 
us  know,  is  thoroughly  aware  of  them.  Thus  he 
interjects  in  the  present  work  (III.  218-9) : — 

"  We  will  make  no  mystery  about  it.  I  would  I  could. 
Those  happy  tales  of  mystery  are  as  much  my  envy  as  the 
popular  narratives  of  the  deeds  of  bread  and  cheese  people, 
for  they  both  create  a  tide-way  in  the  attentive  mind ;  the 
mysterious  pricking  our  credulous  flesh  to  creep,  the  familiar 
urging  our  obese  imagination  to  continual  exercise.  And 
oh,  the  refreshment  there  is  in  dealing  with  characters 

174 


on  Beauchamp's  Career 


either  contemptibly  beneath  us  or  superaaturally  above  ! 
My  way  is  like  a  Rhone  island  in  the  summer  drought, 
stony,  unattractive  and  difficult  between  the  two  forceful 
streams  of  the  unreal  and  the  over-real  which  delight 
mankind — honour  to  the  conjurors  !  My  people  conquer 
nothing,  win  none ;  they  are  actual,  yet  uncommon.  It  is  the 
clockwork  of  the  brain  that  they  are  directed  to  set  in  motion^ 
and— poor  troop  of  actors  to  vacant  benches  ! — the  conscience 
residing  in  thoughtfulness  which  they  would  appeal  to  ;  and  if 
you  are  there  impervious  to  them,  we  are  lost :  back  I  go  to 
my  wilderness,  where,  as  you  perceive,  I  have  contracted 
the  habit  of  listening  to  my  own  voice  more  than  is  good." 

Not  only  does  he  appeal  to  the  conscience  residing 
in  thoughtfulness ;  he  makes  heavy  and  frequent 
demands  on  the  active  imagination, —  monstrous 
attempts  at  extortion  which  both  the  languid  and 
the  sentimental  novel-reader  bitterly  resent,  and 
which  indeed  if  they  grew  common  with  authors 
(luckily  there  is  not  the  slightest  fear  of  that !)  would 
soon  plunge  the  circulating  libraries  into  bank- 
ruptcy. The  late  Charles  Dickens,  who  coincided 
at  all  points  with  the  vulgar  taste  as  exactly  as  the 
two  triangles  of  the  fourth  proposition  of  the  first 
book  of  "  Euclid "  with  one  another,  carried  to  per- 
fection the  Low-Dutch  or  exhaustive  style  of  descrip- 
tion, which  may  be  termed  artistic  painting  reduced 
to  artful  padding,  minutely  cataloguing  all  the 
details,  with  some  exaggeration  or  distortion,  humor- 
ous or  pathetic,  of  each  to  make  them  more  memor- 
able ;  so  that  every  item  can  be  checked  and  verified 
as  in  an  auctioneer's  inventory,  which  is  satisfactory 

175 


James  Thomson 


to  a  business-like  people.  George  Eliot  with  incom- 
parably higher  art  paints  rich  and  solid  pictures 
that  fill  the  eye  and  dwell  in  the  mind.  But  George 
Meredith  seldom  does  this,  either  in  the  realm  of 
Nature  or  in  that  of  Humanity,  though  the  achieve- 
ment is  well  within  his  power,  as  none  of  our  readers 
can  doubt  who  studied,  being  fit  to  study,  those 
magnificent  selections  from  his  "  Vittoria "  in  the 
Secularist  (No.  10,  March  4)  entitled  "Portrait  of 
Mazzini "  and  "  Mazzini  and  Italy."  He  loves  to 
suggest  by  flying  touches  rather  than  slowly  elabo- 
rate. To  those  who  are  quick  to  follow  his  sugges- 
tions he  gives  in  a  few  winged  words  the  very  spirit 
of  a  scene,  the  inmost  secret  of  a  mood  or  passion, 
as  no  other  living  writer  I  am  acquainted  with  can. 
His  name  and  various  passages  in  his  works  reveal 
Welsh  blood,  more  swift  and  fiery  and  imaginative 
than  the  English.  And  he  says  in  the  "  Emilia,"  with 
fair  pride  of  race :  "  All  subtle  feelings  are  discerned 
by  Welsh  eyes  when  untroubled  by  any  mental 
agitation.  Brother  and  sister  were  Welsh,  and  I 
may  observe  that  there  is  human  nature  and  Welsh 
nature."  If  his  personages  are  not  portrayed  at  full 
length,  they  are  clear  and  living  in  his  mind's  eye,  as 
we  discern  by  the  exquisitely  appropriate  gesture  or 
attitude  or  look  in  vivid  moments:  and  they  are 
characterised  by  an  image  or  a  phrase,  as  when  we 
are  told  that  a  profile  of  Beauchamp  "  suggested  an 
arrow-head  in  the  up-flight ; "  and  of  Renee :  "  her 
features  had  the  soft  irregularities  which  run  to 
rarities  of  beauty,  as  the  ripple  rocks  the  light ; 

176 


on  Beauchamp's  Career 


mouth,  eyes,  brows,  nostrils,  and  bloomy  cheeks 
played  into  one  another  liquidly;  thought  flew, 
tongue  followed,  and  the  flash  of  meaning  quivered 
over  them  like  night-lightning.  Or  oftener,  to  speak 
truth,  tongue  flew,  thought  followed :  her  age  was 
but  newly  seventeen,  and  she  was  French."  And 
as  with  the  outward  so  with  the  interior  nature  of 
his  personages.  Marvellous  flashes  of  insight  reveal 
some  of  their  profoundest  secrets,  detect  the  main- 
springs and  trace  the  movements  of  their  most 
complex  workings,  and  from  such  data  you  must 
complete  the  characters,  as  from  certain  leading 
points  a  mathematician  defines  a  curve.  So  with 
his  conversations.  The  speeches  do  not  follow  one 
another  mechanically  adjusted  like  a  smooth  pave- 
ment for  easy  walking :  they  leap  and  break, 
resilient  and  resurgent,  like  running  foam-crested 
sea-waves,  impelled  and  repelled  and  crossed  by 
under-currents  and  great  tides  and  broad  breezes ; 
in  their  restless  agitations  you  must  divine  the  im- 
mense life  abounding  beneath  and  around  and  above 
them  ;  and  the  Mudie  novice  accustomed  to  saunter 
the  level  pavements,  finds  that  the  heaving  and 
falling  are  sea-sickness  to  a  queasy  stomach.  More- 
over he  delights  in  the  elaborate  analysis  of  abstruse 
problems,  whose  solutions  when  reached  are  scarcely 
less  difficult  to  ordinary  apprehension  than  are  the 
problems  themselves;  discriminating  countless  shades 
where  the  common  eye  sees  but  one  gloom  or  glare, 
pursuing  countless  distinct  movements  where  the 
common  eye  sees  only  a  whirling  perplexity.  As 

177  N 


James  Thomson 


if  all  these  heavy  disqualifications  were  not  enough, 
as  if  he  were  not  sufficiently  offensive  in  being 
original,  he  dares  also  to  be  wayward  and  wilful, 
not  theatrically  or  overweeningly  like  Charles  Reade, 
but  freakishly  and  humoristically,  to  the  open-eyed 
disgust  of  our  prim  public.  Lastly,  his  plots  are  too 
carelessly  spun  to  catch  our  summer  flies,  showing 
here  great  gaps  and  there  a  pendent  entanglement ; 
while  his  catastrophes  are  wont  to  outrage  that 
most  facile  justice  of  romance  which  condemns  all 
rogues  to  poverty  and  wretchedness  and  rewards  the 
virtuous  with  wealth  and  long  life  and  flourishing 
large  families. 

In  exposing  his  defects  for  the  many,  I  have  dis- 
covered some  of  his  finest  qualities  for  the  thoughtful 
and  imaginative  few,  and  need  now  only  summarise. 
He  has  a  wonderful  eye  for  form  and  colour,  especially 
the  latter ;  a  masterly  perception  of  character,  a  most 
subtle  sense  for  spiritual  mysteries.  His  dialogue  is 
full  of  life  and  reality,  flexile  and  rich  in  the  genuine 
unexpected,  marked  with  the  keenest  distinctions, 
more  like  the  bright-witted  French  than  the  slow  and 
clumsy  English.  He  can  use  brogue  and  baragouinage 
with  rare  accuracy  and  humorous  effect ;  witness  the 
Irish  Mrs.  Chump  and  the  Greek  Pericles  in  "  Emilia." 
Though  he  seldom  gives  way  to  it,  he  is  great  in  the 
fiery  record  of  fiery  action ;  thus  the  duel  in  the 
Stelvio  Pass,  in  "  Vittoria,"  has  been  scarcely  equalled 
by  any  living  novelist  save  by  Charles  Reade  in  that 
heroic  fight  with  the  pirates  in  "Hard  Cash."  He 
has  this  sure  mark  of  lofty  genius,  that  he  always, 

178 


on  Beauchamp's  Career 


rises  with  his  theme,  growing  more  strenuous,  more 
self-contained,  more  magistral,  as  the  demands  on 
his  thought  and  imagination  increase.  His  style  is 
very  various  and  flexible,  flowing  freely  in  whatever 
measures  the  subject  and  the  mood  may  dictate.  At 
its  best  it  is  so  beautiful  in  simplest  Saxon,  so 
majestic  in  rhythm,  so  noble  with  noble  imagery,  so 
pregnant  with  meaning,  so  vital  and  intense,  that  it 
must  be  ranked  among  the  supreme  achievements  of 
our  literature.  A  dear  friend  said  well  when  reading 
"  Vittoria  "  :  Here  truly  are  words  that  if  you  pricked 
them  would  bleed.  For  integral  grandeur  and  origi- 
nality of  conception,  and  for  perfectness  of  execu- 
tion, the  heroine  of  his  "  Emilia"  appears  to  me  the 
sovereign  character  of  our  modern  fiction  :  in  her  he 
has  discovered  a  new  great  nature,  whom  he  has 
endowed  with  a  new  great  language.  In  fine,  I  am 
aware  of  no  other  living  English  writer  so  gloriously 
gifted  and  so  little  known  and  appreciated  except 
Garth  Wilkinson.* 

These  general  remarks,  a  poor  tribute  of  grati- 
tude for  many  hours  of  exquisite  delight,  which  I 
could  not  refrain  from  tendering  when  opportunity 

*  In  "Essays  and  Phantasies "  this  article  breaks  off  here  and 
concludes  with  the  following  sentence  : — 

"  In  fine,  I  am  aware  of  no  other  living  English  writer  so  gloriously 
gifted  and  so  little  known  and  appreciated  except  Garth  Wilkinson  : 
and  Garth  Wilkinson  has  squandered  ^his  superb  genius  in  most  futile 
efforts  to  cultivate  the  spectral  Sahara  of  Swedenborgianism,  and, 
infinitely  worse,  the  Will-o'-the-wisp  Slough  of  Despond  of  Spiritism ; 
while  George  Meredith  has  constantly  devoted  himself  to  the  ever- 
fruitful  fields  of  real  living  Nature  and  Human  Nature." 

179 


James  Thomson 


offered,  have  left  me  but  scant  space  for  special 
notice  of  George  Meredith's  last  work  ;  which,  like  the 
"Vittoria,"  first  appeared  in  the  Fortnightly.  Nevil 
Beauchamp  is  a  gallant  young  naval  officer,  well- 
born and  well-bred,  who  after  service  in  the  Crimea, 
on  the  west  coast  of  Africa  and  elsewhere,  comes 
home  a  radical  reformer.  He  has  been  greatly 
influenced  by  the  works  of  Carlyle,  and  now  ex- 
periences the  personal  influence  of  a  Carlylesque 
Dr.  Shrapnel,  one  of  the  best  and  kindest  of 
men,  hated  and  feared  by  all  Whig  and  Tory 
respectabilities  as  a  firebrand  of  revolution  and 
anarchy.  Beauchamp  fights  an  election  for  a  very 
corrupt  constituency  (Bevisham,  which  appears  to 
mean  Southampton),  is  beaten,  and  takes  to  lectur- 
ing and  writing  for  the  people.  His  political  career 
may  have  been  partly  suggested  by  that  of  Admiral 
Maxse,  to  whom,  being  then  captain,  George  Mere- 
dith "  affectionately  inscribed  "  his  volume  of  Poems 
fourteen  years  back.  Beauchamp,  a  fascinating 
enthusiast,  with  spiritual  affinities  to  Shelley,  is 
not  so  absorbed  in  politics  as  to  be  free  from 
the  grand  passion  ;  and  the  story  of  his  loves  in 
their  ravelling  and  unravelling  is  the  artistic  glory 
of  the  book,  where  it  must  be  read  at  full  length 
to  be  appreciated.  The  Secularist  must  concern 
itself  rather  with  the  political  and  social  sketches 
and  discussions,  which  are  full  of  keen  wit 
and  independent  thought.  I  regret  that  there  is 
space  only  for  some  brief  extracts.  How  true  is 
this  !•— 

1 80 


on  Beauchamp's  Career 


"  Corn  Law  Repeal,  the  Manchester  flood,  before  which 
time  Whigs  were,  since  which  they  have  walked  like 
spectral  antediluvians,  or  floated  as  dead  canine  bodies 
that  are  sucked  away  on  the  ebb  of  tides  and  flung  back 
on  the  flow,  ignorant  whether  they  be  progressive  or 
retrograde." 

Here  is  a  morning  view  of  Mr.  Timothy  Turbot, 
Irish  orator  and  journalist,  attached  to  Liberalism 
and  devoted  to  Whisky  : — 

"Beauchamp  beheld  a  middle-sized  round  man,  with 
loose  lips  and  pendant  indigo  jowl,  whose  eyes  twinkled 
watery,  like  pebbles  under  the  shore-wash,  and  whose 
neck-band  needed  an  extra  touch  from  fingers  other  than 
his  own." 

Tim  looks  on  politics  like  the  philosopher  he 
is : — 

"  Politics,  Commander  Beauchamp,  involves  the  doing 
of  lots  of  disagreeable  things  to  ourselves  and  our  relations  ; 
it's  positive.  I'm  a  soldier  of  the  Great  Campaign  [Anti- 
Corn-Law]  :  and  who  knows  it  better  than  I,  sir  ?  It's 
climbing  the  greasy  pole  for  the  leg  o'  mutton,  that  makes 
the  mother's  heart  ache  for  the  jacket  and  the  nether 
garments  she  mended  neatly,  if  she  didn't  make  them. 
Mutton  or  no  mutton,  there's  grease  for  certain  ! " 

Equally  philosophical  are  his  views  of  candi- 
dates : — 

"  Well,  commander,  well,  sir,  they  say  a  candidate's 
to  be  humoured  in  his  infancy,  for  he  has  to  do  all  the 
humouring  before  he's  many  weeks  old  at  it  \  only  there's 

181 


James  Thomson 


the  fact — he  soon  finds  out  he  has  to  pay  for  his  first 
fling,  like  the  son  of  a  family  sowing  his  oats  to  reap  his 
Jews  .  .  .  The  address  was  admirably  worded,  sir,  I 
make  bold  to  say  it  to  your  face;  but  most  indubitably 
it  threatened  powerful  drugs  for  weak  stomachs,  and  it 
blew  cold  on  votes,  which  are  sensitive  plants  like  nothing 
else  in  botany  ...  I  repeat,  my  dear  sir,  I  repeat,  the 
infant  candidate  delights  in  his  honesty,  like  the  babe  in 
its  nakedness,  the  beautiful  virgin  in  her  innocence.  So 
he  does,  but  he  discovers  it's  time  to  wear  clothes  in  a 
contested  election.  And  what's  that  but  to  preserve  the 
outlines  pretty  correctly,  whilst  he  doesn't  shock  and 
horrify  the  sight?  A  dash  of  conventionalism  makes 
the  whole  civilised  world  kin,  ye  know — that's  the  truth. 
You  must  appear  to  be  one  of  them  for  them  to  choose 
you." 

Nevil  Beauchamp  quotes  Dr.  Shrapnel  on  the 
Tories  :— 

"  He  compares  them  to  geese  claiming  possession  of 
the  whole  common,  and  hissing  at  every  foot  of  ground 
they  have  to  yield.  They're  always  having  to  retire  and 
always  hissing.  f  Retreat  and  menace,'  that's  the  motto  for 
them." 

Nevil  speaks  of  the  clergymen  of  our  very  dear 
State  Church  :— 

"  The  Protestant  parson  is  the  policeman  set  to  watch 
over  the  respectability  of  the  middle-class.  He  has  sharp 
eyes  for  the  sins  of  the  poor.  As  for  the  rich,  they  support 
his  church ;  they  listen  to  his  sermon — to  set  an  example  : 
discipline,  colonel.  You  discipline  the  tradesman,  who's 

182 


on  Beauchamp's  Career 


afraid  of  losing  your  custom,  and  the  labourer,  who  might 
be  deprived  of  his  bread.  But  the  people  ?  It's  put  down 
to  the  wickedness  of  human  nature  that  the  parson  has  not 
got  hold  of  the  people.  The  parsons  have  lost  them  by 
senseless  Conservatism,  because  they  look  to  the  Tories 
for  the  support  of  their  Church,  and  let  the  religion  run 
down  the  gutters.  And  how  many  thousands  have  you 
at  work  in  the  pulpit  every  Sunday?  I'm  told  the  dis- 
senting ministers  have  some  vitality  .  .  .  And  these  thirty 
or  forty  thousand  call  the  men  that  do  the  work  they 
ought  to  be  doing  demagogues.  The  parsonry  are  a 
power  absolutely  to  be  counted  for  waste,  as  to  progress." 

This  is  not  a  bad  observation  : — 

"  Tory  and  Radical  have  an  eye  for  one  another,  which 
overlooks  the  Liberal  at  all  times  except  when  he  is, 
as  they  imagine,  playing  the  game  of  either  of  them." 

Stukely  Culbrett,  old  Tory  and  cynic,  delivers 
himself : — 

"  Look  here,  Nevil,  I  beg  to  inquire  what  Dr.  Shrapnel 
means  by  'the  people.'  We  have  in  our  country  the 
nobles  and  the  squires,  and  after  them,  as  I  understand 
it,  the  people :  that's  to  say,  the  middle-class  and  the 
working-class — fat  and  lean.  I'm  quite  with  Shrapnel 
when  he  lashes  the  flesh-pots.  They  want  it,  and  they 
don't  get  it  from  '  their  organ,'  the  Press.  I  fancy 
you  and  I  agree  about  their  organ;  the  dismallest  organ 
that  ever  ground  a  hackneyed  set  of  songs  and  hymns 
to  madden  the  thoroughfares.  It's  the  week-day  Parson 
of  the  middle-class.  They  have  their  thinking  done  for 
them  as  the  Chinese  have  their  dancing.  But,  Nevil, 

183 


James  Thomson 


your  Dr.  Shrapnel  seems  to  treat  the  traders  as  identical 
with  the  aristocrats  in  opposition  to  his  'people.'  The 
traders  are  the  cursed  middlemen,  bad  friends  of  the 
'  people,'  and  infernally  treacherous  to  the  nobles  till 
money  hoists  them.  It's  they  who  pull  down  the  country. 
They  hold  up  the  nobles  to  the  hatred  of  the  democracy, 
and  the  democracy  to  scare  the  nobles.  One's  when  they 
want  to  swallow  a  privilege,  and  the  other's  when  they  want 
to  ring-fence  their  gains." 

Dr.  Shrapnel  writes  of  our  royalty  and  loyalty 
and  our  Church : — 

"Where  kings  lead,  it  is  to  be  supposed  they  are 
wanted.  Service  is  the  noble  office  on  earth,  and  where 
kings  do  service  let  them  take  the  first  honours  of  the 
State :  but  the  English  middle-class,  which  has  absorbed 
the  upper  and  despises,  when  it  is  not  quaking  before  it, 
the  lower,  will  have  nothing  above  it  but  a  rickety  ornament 
like  that  you  see  on  a  confectioner's  twelfth-cake.  This 
loyalty  smacks  of  a  terrible  perfidy.  Pass  the  lords  and 
squires  .  .  .  their  hearts  are  in  their  holdings !  For  the 
loyalty  of  the  rest  of  the  land,  it  is  the  shopkeeper's 
loyalty,  which  is  to  be  computed  by  the  exact  annual 
sum  of  his  net  profits.  It  is  now  at  high  tide.  It  will 
last  with  the  prosperity  of  our  commerce.  Let  commercial 
disasters  come  on  us,  and  what  of  the  loyalty  now  paying 
its  hundreds  of  thousands,  and  howling  down  questioners  ? 
In  a  day  of  bankruptcies,  how  much  would  you  bid  for  the 
loyalty  of  a  class  shivering  under  deprivation  of  luxuries, 
with  its  god  Comfort  beggared  ?  Ay,  my  Beauchamp,  ay, 
when  you  reflect  that  fear  of  the  so-called  rabble,  i.e.  the 
people,  the  unmoneyed  class,  which  knows  not  Comfort, 
tastes  not  of  luxuries,  is  the  main  component  of  their  noisy 

184 


on  Beauchamp's  Career 


frigid  loyalty,  and  that  the  people  are  not  with  them  but 
against,  and  yet  that  the  people  might  be  won  by  visible 
forthright  kingly  service  to  a  loyalty  outdoing  theirs  as  the 
sun  the  moon ;  ay,  that  the  people  verily  thirst  to  love  and 
reverence ;  and  that  their  love  is  the  only  love  worth  having, 
because  it  is  disinterested  love,  and  endures,  and  takes  heat 
in  adversity, — reflect  on  it  and  wonder  at  the  inversion  of 
things  !  So  with  a  Church.  It  lives  if  it  is  at  home  with 
the  poor.  In  the  arms  of  enriched  shopkeepers  it  rots, 
goes  to  decay  in  vestments — vestments  !  flakes  of  mummy- 
wraps  for  it !  or  else  they  use  it  for  one  of  their  political 
truncheons — to  awe  the  ignorant  masses :  I  quote  them. 
So.  Not  much  ahead  of  ancient  Egyptians  in  spirituality 
or  in  priestcraft !  They  call  it  statesmanship.  O  for  a 
word  for  it !  Let  Palsy  and  Cunning  go  to  form  a  word. 
Deadmanship,  I  call  it." 

The  same  dreadful  Dr.  writes  of  creeds  and 
systems : — 

"Professors,  prophets,  masters,  each  hitherto  has  had 
his  creed  and  system  to  offer,  good  mayhap  for  the  term, 
and  each  has  put  it  forth  for  the  truth  everlasting,  to  drive 
the  dagger  to  the  heart  of  time,  and  put  the  axe  to  human 
growth ! — that  one  circle  of  wisdom  issuing  of  the  ex- 
perience and  needs  of  their  day,  should  act  the  despot 
over  all  other  circles  for  ever !  .  .  .  The  creed  that  rose 
in  heaven  sets  below ;  and  where  we  had  an  angel  we 
have  cloven-feet  and  fangs.  Ask  how  that  is  !  The  creed 
is  much  what  it  was  when  the  followers  diverged  it  from 
the  Founder.  But  humanity  is  not  where  it  was  when  that 
creed  was  food  and  guidance.  Creeds  will  not  die  not 
fighting.  We  cannot  root  them  up  out  of  us  without  blood. 
Ours,  my  Beauchamp,  is  the  belief  that  humanity  advances 

185 


James  Thomson 


beyond  the  limits  of  creeds,  is  to  be  tied  to  none.  We 
reverence  the  Master  in  his  teachings ;  we  behold  the 
limits  of  him  in  his  creed — and  that  is  not  his  work.  We 
truly  are  his  disciples,  who  see  how  far  it  was  in  him  to  do 
service ;  not  they  that  make  of  his  creed  a  strait-jacket  for 
humanity." 

Mr.  Blackburn  Tuckham,  a  staunch  young  Tory, 
relates  part  of  an  interview  with  Shrapnel : — 

"I  happened,  casually,  meaning  no  harm,  and  not 
supposing  I  was  throwing  a  lighted  match  on  powder,  to 
mention  the  word  Providence.  I  found  myself  imme- 
diately confronted  by  Shrapnel — overtopped,  I  should 
say  ...  He  began  rocking  over  me  like  a  poplar  in  a 
gale,  and  cries  out :  c  Stay  there !  away  with  that !  Pro- 
vidence? Can  you  set  a  thought  on  Providence,  not 
seeking  to  propitiate  it?  And  have  you  not  there  the 
damning  proof  that  you  are  at  the  foot  of  an  Idol  ? '  .  .  . 
And  he  went  on  with :  '  Ay,  invisible,'  and  his  arm 
chopping,  '  but  an  Idol !  an  Idol ! ' — I  was  to  think  of 
'  nought  but  Laws.'  He  admitted  there  might  be  one 
above  the  Laws.  '  To  realise  him  is  to  fry  the  brains  in 
their  pan,'  says  he,  and  struck  his  forehead  a  slap." 

Let  us  escape  from  the  heated  atmosphere  and 
narrow  rooms  of  controversy,  for  one  large  draught 
of  open  air  in  the  temple  not  made  with  hands. 
In  the  "  Mazzini "  selection  we  saw  how  George 
Meredith  portrayed  a  great  man,  in  the  "Mazzini 
and  Italy  "  how  he  imaged  an  almost  mortal  national 
agony ;  let  us  now  see  how  he  pictures  nature  at  her 
grandest.  We  have  had  a  noble  Titian  and  a  weird 

1 86 


on  Beauchamp's  Career 


Rembrandt  or  Durer,  let  us  now  have  a  glorious 
aerial  Turner.  Nevil  Beauchamp  and  Renee,  with 
her  brother  and  another  lady,  being  in  Venice,  hire 
a  big  Chioggian  fishing-boat  to  sail  into  the  gulf  at 
night,  and  return  at  dawn,  and  have  sight  of  Venice 
rising  from  the  sea  : — 

"He  was  at  first  amazed  by  the  sudden  exquisite 
transition.  Tenderness  breathed  from  her,  in  voice,  in 
look,  in  touch !  for  she  accepted  his  help  that  he  might 
lead  her  to  the  stern  of  the  vessel,  to  gaze  well  on  setting 
Venice,  and  sent  lightnings  up  his  veins;  she  leaned 
beside  him  over  the  vessel's  rails,  not  separated  from  him 
by  the  breadth  of  a  fluttering  riband.  Like  him,  she 
scarcely  heard  her  brother  when  for  an  instant  he  inter- 
vened, and  with  Nevil  she  said  adieu  to  Venice,  where 
the  faint  red  Doge's  palace  was  like  the  fading  of  another 
sunset  north-westward  of  the  glory  along  the  hills,  Venice 
dropped  lower  and  lower,  breasting  the  waters,  until  it 
was  a  thin  line  in  air.  The  line  was  broken,  and  ran  in 
dots,  with  here  and  there  a  pillar  standing  on  opal  sky.  At 
last  the  topmost  campanile  sank. 

"The  breeze  blew  steadily,  enough  to  swell  the  sails 
and  sweep  the  vessel  on  smoothly.  The  night  air  dropped 
no  moisture  on  deck. 

"Nevil  Beauchamp  dozed  for  an  hour.  He  was 
awakened  by  light  on  his  eyelids,  and  starting  up  beheld 
the  many  pinnacles  of  grey  and  red  rocks  and  shadowy 
high  white  regions  at  the  head  of  the  gulf  waiting  for 
the  sun;  and  the  sun  struck  them.  One  by  one  they 
came  out  in  crimson  flame,  till  the  vivid  host  appeared 
to  have  stepped  forward.  The  shadows  on  the  snow-fields 

187 


James  Thomson  on  Beauchamp's  Career 

deepened  to  purple  below  an  irradiation  of  rose  and  pink 
and  dazzling  silver.  There  of  all  the  world  you  might 
imagine  gods  to  sit.  A  crown  of  mountains  endless  in 
range,  erect,  or  flowing,  shattered  and  arid,  or  leaning  in 
smooth  lustre,  hangs  above  the  gulf.  The  mountains  are 
sovereign  Alps,  and  the  sea  is  beneath  them.  The  whole 
gigantic  body  keeps  the  sea,  as  with  a  hand,  to  right  and 
left. 

"  Nevil's  personal  rapture  craved  for  Rende  with  the 
second  long  breath  he  drew ;  and  now  the  curtain  of  her 
tent-cabin  parted,  and  greeting  him  with  half  a  smile,  she 
looked  out.  The  Adriatic  was  dark,  the  Alps  had  heaven 
to  themselves.  Crescents  and  hollows,  rosy  mounds,  white 
shelves,  shining  ledges,  domes  and  peaks,  all  the  towering 
heights  were  in  illumination  from  Friuli  into  farthest  Tyrol ; 
beyond  earth  to  the  stricken  sense  of  the  gazers.  Colour 
was  stedfast  on  the  massive  front  ranks ;  it  wavered  in 
the  remoteness,  and  was  quick  and  dim  as  though  it  fell 
on  beating  wings ;  but  there  too  divine  colour  seized  and 
shaped  forth  solid  forms,  and  thence  away  to  others  in 
uttermost  distances  where  the  incredible  flickering  gleam 
of  new  heights  arose,  that  soared,  or  stretched  their  white 
uncertain  curves  in  sky  like  wings  traversing  infinity. 

"  It  seemed  unlike  morning  to  the  lovers,  but  as  if  night 
had  broken  with  a  revelation  of  the  kingdom  in  the  heart 
of  night.  While  the  broad  smooth  waters  rolled  unlighted 
beneath  that  transfigured  upper  sphere,  it  was  possible  to 
think  the  scene  might  vanish  like  a  view  caught  out  of 
darkness  by  lightning.  Alp  over  burning  Alp,  and  around 
them  a  hueless  dawn ! " 


188 


THE   EGOIST 


XIX 

WILLIAM   ERNEST   HENLEY 

ON 

THE  EGOIST 

[From  The  Academy^  No.  394,  New  Issue,  p.  369,  November  22, 1879.] 

IN  "  The  Egoist "  the  author  of  "  Harry  Richmond  " 
and  "  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel "  has  produced 
a  piece  of  literature  unique  of  its  kind.  He  has 
nothing  to  learn  of  comedy  in  the  abstract ;  he 
proved  that  long  ago  in  the  brilliant  fragment  on  the 
comic  spirit  and  its  uses  read  by  him  at  the  Royal 
Institution.  But  it  is  a  far  cry  from  a  proper  under- 
standing of  comedy  to  an  artistic  exemplification  of 
its  function  and  capacities,  and  they  are  very  few 
who  have  attempted  the  journey  with  success.  Mr. 
Meredith  is  indisputably  of  their  number.  His  book 
is  fairly  described  as  a  Comedy  in  Chapters,  for  it 
has  the  same  intention  and  the  same  relation  to 
actuality  and  human  life  as  the  master-works  of 
Moliere.  It  is  an  epitome  in  narrative  of  a  certain 
well-thumbed  chapter  in  the  great  Book  of  Egoism — 
the  chapter  treating  of  the  egoist  in  love,  the  egoist 
as  he  appears  and  is  in  his  relations  with  woman  ; 

191 


William  Ernest  Henley 


and  in  the  figure  of  its  hero,  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne, 
Mr.  Meredith  has  summed  up  enough  of  human 
nature  to  make  it  typical  and  heroic.  Of  course 
Sir  Willoughby's  story  is  as  conventionally  told  as 
Alceste's  own.  Its  personages  are  not  human  beings, 
but  compendiums  of  humanity  ;  their  language  is  not 
that  of  life  and  society  pure  and  simple,  but  that 
of  life  and  society  as  seen  and  heard  through  the 
medium  of  comedy  ;  the  atmosphere  they  breathe  is 
as  artificially  rare  as  that  of  Orgon's  parlour.  To 
live  with  them  you  must  leave  the  world  behind, 
and  content  yourself  with  essences  and  abstractions 
instead  of  substances  and  concrete  things  ;  and  you 
must  forget  that  such  vulgar  methods  as  realism  and 
naturalism  ever  were.  Thus  prepared,  you  will  find 
"The  Egoist,"  as  far  as  its  matter  is  concerned,  a 
veritable  guide  to  self-knowledge  and  a  treatise  on 
the  species  of  wonderful  value  and  comprehensive- 
ness. As  to  its  manner,  that  is  a  very  different  thing. 
I  can  well  believe  that  there  are  many  who  will  read 
"  The  Egoist  "  with  impatience  and  regret,  and  many 
more  who  will  not  read  it  at  all.  To  prepare  one's 
self  for  its  consideration  with  the  "  Imposteur "  and 
"  L'Ecole  des  Femmes  "  is  a  mistake.  Mr.  Meredith's 
style,  it  seems  to  me,  has  always  been  his  weak  point. 
Like  Shakspere,  he  is  a  man  of  genius,  who  is  a 
clever  man  as  well ;  and  he  seems  to  prefer  his  clever- 
ness to  his  genius.  It  is  not  enough  for  him  to 
write  a  book  that  is  merely  great ;  his  book  must 
also  be  brilliant  and  personal,  or  it  is  no  book  to 
him.  It  may  be  that  in  "  The  Egoist  "  his  reckless 

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individuality  is  less  ill  seen  than  in  "  Beauchamp  " 
or  "Emilia";  it  may  be  that,  as  the  inventor  of  a 
literary  genre,  he  may  insist  on  being  criticised 
according  to  his  own  canons.  Certain  it  is  that  in 
his  Comedy  in  Chapters  he  has  asserted  himself 
more  vigorously,  if  that  were  possible,  than  in  any 
other  of  his  works.  It  is  a  wilful  hurly-burly  of  wit, 
wisdom,  fancy,  freakishness,  irony,  analysis,  humour, 
and  affectation  ;  and  you  catch  yourself  wishing,  as 
you  might  over  Shakspere,  that  Mr.  Meredith  were 
merely  a  great  artist,  and  not  so  diabolically  ingenious 
and  sympathetic  and  well  informed  and  intellectual 
as  he  is.  Speaking  for  myself,  I  have  read  "The 
Egoist "  with  great  and  ever-increasing  interest  and 
admiration.  To  me  it  is  certainly  one  of  the  ablest 
books  of  modern  years.  It  is  full  of  passion  and 
insight,  of  wit  and  force,  of  truth  and  eloquence  and 
nature.  Its  characters,  from  Sir  Willoughby  down- 
wards, are  brilliantly  right  and  sound  ;  it  has  through- 
out the  perfect  good  breeding  of  high  comedy ;  there 
is  not  a  sentence  in  it,  whether  of  dialogue  or  analysis 
or  reflection,  but  is  in  some  sort  matter  for  applause. 
All  the  same,  I  cannot  but  believe  that  its  peculiari- 
ties of  form  are  such  as  must  stand  inevitably  in  the 
way  of  its  success.  I  cannot  but  believe  that,  with 
all  its  astonishing  merits,  it  will  present  itself  to  its 
warmest  admirers  as  a  failure  in  art,  as  art  has 
hitherto  been  understood  and  practised.  Mr.  Mere- 
dith has  written  for  himself,  and  it  is  odds  but  the 
multitude  will  decline  to  listen  to  him.  Nor,  so  far 
as  I  can  see,  is  the  multitude  alone  to  blame. 

193  O 


XX 

JAMES  THOMSON 

ON 

THE  EGOIST. 

[From   Copts  Tobacco  Plant,  vol.  ii.,  No.   1 1 8,  January,  1880, 
pp.  43°-43I>  signed  "  Sigval."] 

WHEN  the  Tobacco  Pldnt  ventured  to  assert  and 
prophesy  of  George  Meredith  (May,  1879;  article, 
"  An  Old  New  Book  ") :  "  He  may  be  termed,  accu- 
rately enough  for  a  brief  indication,  the  Robert 
Browning  of  our  novelists  ;  and  his  day  is  bound  to 
come,  as  Browning's  at  length  has  come  ; "  the  writer 
little  thought  that  day  would  come  so  soon.  He 
knew  that  his  author  had  been  labouring  nobly  for 
about  thirty  years  amidst  general  neglect,  producing 
magnificent  works  immediately  consigned  to  "that 
oblivion  of  oblivion  which  has  never  had  any  remem- 
brance ; "  and  he  had  read  in  a  paper  calling  itself 
Literary  a  review  of  that  same  Old  New  Book, 
"  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel,"  treating  it  as  quite 
a  new  book,  condemning  it  to  the  pillory,  and  pelting 
it  there  with  such  rotten  eggs  as  these  :  "  It  would 
even  be  unjust  to  compare  such  writings  (sic}  with  the 

194 


James  Thomson  on  The  Egoist 

scavengers  and  dust  collectors  of  ordinary  life.  The 
latter  are  necessary  to  the  cleanliness  and  health  of 
the  community,  while  the  literary  refuse  and  rubbish, 
etc.  ...  a  long  series  of  paltry  dialogue,  of  a 
surprisingly  fervent  nature.  .  .  .  When  the  author 
moralises,  he  does  not  halt  for  words,  but  chucks 
them  in  anyhow,  dragging  along  with  him  a  string  of 
vapid  nonsense." 

With  the  appearance  of  "  The  Egoist "  has  come 
the  dawning  of  Mr.  Meredith's  day,  after  a  night  so 
long  and  dreary  and  dense ;  during  which,  while 
working  on  undaunted,  he  must  have  had  sore  need 
of  Schopenhauer's  consolation  :  "  The  number  of  the 
years  that  elapse  between  the  appearance  of  a  book 
and  its  acknowledgment  gives  the  measure  of  time 
that  the  author  is  in  advance  of  his  age.  The  entire 
neglect  which  my  work  has  experienced  proves  that 
either  I  was  unworthy  of  my  age,  or  my  age  of  me." 
The  first  clear  light  that  I  saw  was  reflected  from  the 
Athen&um  (Nov.  i,  1879),  in  almost  the  first  critique 
I  had  seen  evincing  the  critic's  familiarity  (a  famili- 
arity breeding  the  very  opposite  of  contempt)  with 
all  the  writer's  works.  Here  are  a  few  rays :  "  He 
has  considered  sex — the  great  subject,  the  leaven  of 
imaginative  art — with  notable  audacity  and  insight. 
In  his  best  work  he  ranks  with  the  world's  novelists. 
He  is  a  companion  for  Balzac  and  Richardson,  an 
intimate  for  Fielding  and  Cervantes.  ...  In  the 
world  of  man's  creation  his  people  are  citizens  to 
match  the  noblest ;  they  are  of  the  aristocracy  of  the 
imagination  .  .  .  there  is  no  question  but  'The 

195 


James  Thomson 


Egoist '  is  a  piece  of  imaginative  work  as  solid  and 
rich  as  any  that  the  century  has  seen  [I  would  except 
a  very  few  others,  among  them  two  or  three  of  Mere- 
dith's own,  which  are  greater  simply  because  their 
main  theme  is  greater],  and  that  it  is  not  only  one  of 
its  author's  masterpieces,  but  one  of  the  strongest  and 
most  individual  performances  of  modern  literature." 
This  was  cheering  for  a  most  devout  admirer  who 
had  been  watching  through  a  quarter  of  a  century  for 
the  dayspring,  confounded  by  its  prodigious  delay. 
Other  hills  and  hillocks  caught  the  new  radiance, 
kindling  rapidly  as  the  beacon-fires  that  announced 
the  fall  of  Troy,  or  those  others  that  signalled  the 
approach  of  the  Armada.  Thus  the  Pall  Mall: 
"  One  of  the  most  striking  works  of  our  time.  .  .  . 
Of  extraordinary  merit.  .  .  .  The  work  is  so  com- 
plete and  elaborate  as  to  be  indescribable  in  the 
compass  of  a  newspaper  article."  Similarly  the 
Spectator,  Examiner,  Daily  News,  and  I  know  not 
how  many  more.  The  last-named  reflects  :  "  It  will 
be  extremely  interesting  to  see  how  the  English 
public  will  take  Mr.  George  Meredith's  last  publica- 
tion. The  critics  Mr.  Meredith  has  had  always  with 
him.  But  critics  cannot  make  a  public,  and  hence  the 
uncertainty  and  amusement  of  watching  the  honest 
English  mind  over  this  last  highly  seasoned  dish 
which  Mr.  Meredith  has  placed  before  it.  Will  the 
plain  palates  relish  the  exquisite  savours  of  so 
delicate  a  wit?  Will  they  appreciate  the  subtle 
essences  he  has  cunningly  distilled  into  the  dish  ? " 
I  have  italicised  the  words  from  which  I  dissent, 

196 


on  The  Egoist 

Firstly,  if  by  critics  the  writer  means  public  critics,  as 
surely  every  reader  must  understand  him  to  mean,  I 
ask  in  amaze,  When  and  where  have  they  shown 
their  appreciation  of  Mr.  Meredith  ?  I  know  of  but 
one  class  or  popular  review  or  magazine  which  has 
called  attention  to  his  works  as  a  whole — the  British 
Quarterly,  and  that  not  until  last  April.  And  where 
in  the  high-class  and  literary  weeklies  are  to  be 
found  anything  like  adequate  appreciations  of  his 
previous  books  ?  Where,  in  the  whole  range  of  our 
periodical  literature  throughout  the  last  twenty  years, 
can  one  discover  the  tributes  justly  due  to  the  magni- 
ficent genius  and  insight  and  energy,  the  wit  and 
humour  and  passion  of  the  1859  "Richard  Feverel,' 
the  "  Modern  Love,  and  other  Poems,"  the  "  Emilia 
in  England,"  the  "  Vittoria,"  the  "  Harry  Richmond," 
the  "  Beauchamp's  Career  "  ?  Why,  even  of  this  last, 
issued  in  three  volumes  in  1876,  when  the  author  had 
been  twenty-five  years  before  the  public,  I  can  find  no 
notice  in  the  "  Contemporary  Literature  "  department 
of  the  Westminster  Review,  though  I  find  a  whole 
separate  article  on  Ouida's  novels ;  in  the  AtJienceum 
it  is  only  noticed  as  one  of  a  batch  of  six  "  Novels  of 
the  Week  ;"  in  the  Academy  also  as  one  of  a  batch 
of  six  "  New  Novels,"  the  critic,  no  less  a  man  than 
Dr.  Littledale,  expressing  himself  thus :  "  Though 
written  with  much  pains,  considerable  cleverness,  and 
occasional  sparkle,  it  exhibits  too  much  effort  .  .  . 
we  rise  from  perusal  with  the  conviction  that  it  is 
not  as  a  novelist  that  Mr.  Meredith  can  look  for  a 
permanent  name  in  literature.  As  critic  or  essayist 

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James  Thomson 

there  is  probably  a  career  open  to  him."  Against 
these  I  am  happy  to  cite  Cope's  Tobacco  Plant 
(which  had  not  put  forth  its  precious  leafage  when 
the  earlier  books  appealed  to  the  dear  deaf  stupid 
public),  uttering  wisdom  at  its  "  Smoke  Room  Table  " 
(June,  1876),  in  this  wise:  "We  have  the  story  of 
Nevil  Beauchamp's  love  and  love-perplexities  told  as 
none  but  George  Meredith  could  tell  it,  with  marvel- 
lous subtleties  of  insight  and  expression,  and  framed 
in  scenes  such  as  only  he  can  suggest  in  a  few  swift 
words,  instinct  with  spirit  and  luminous  with  beauty." 
And  again  :  "  We  can  cordially  commend  it  and  all 
his  works  to  the  meditative  smoker,  who  grudgeth 
not  several  slow  whiffs  over  a  knotty  point  when  the 
knot  is  really  worth  untying  for  the  sake  of  that  which 
it  involves."  Those  knots,  which  neither  the  clumsy 
public  nor  the  practised  critics  could  untie,  Cope, 
smoking,  unravelled  right  deftly  ;  and  Nicotina,  who 
is  Wisdom,  is  justified  of  her  children.  Truly,  if  the 
critics  have  always  been  devoted  to  Mr.  Meredith,  it 
has  been  with  a  most  secret  devotion,  never  exposed 
to  the  vulgar  eye  ;  a  devotion  wonderfully  like  that  of 
Balzac's  discreet  Napoleonists  after  Waterloo  and  the 
Restoration,  proved  unostentatiously  by  the  capital 
N's  and  golden  bees  embroidered  on  their  braces !  (In 
"  La  Femme  de  Trente  Ans,"  if  I  remember  rightly). 
Secondly,  the  critics  can  make  a  public,  and  always 
do  make  a  public  if  they  set  themselves  to  the  work ; 
and  they  do  it  with  the  greater  ease  because  the 
English  mind  is  not  honest,  any  more  than  it  is 
intelligent.  The  English  mind  follows  the  fashion  ; 

198 


on  The  Egoist 

purchases  what  is  cried  up,  irrespective  of  its  real 
value  ;  applauds  what  is  applauded,  without  knowing 
the  reason  why ;  puts  Shakespeare  and  Milton  con- 
spicuous on  its  bookshelves,  disposes  the  most  pious 
gilt-edged  volumes  on  its  drawing-room  table,  while 
really  only  enjoying  its  paper  or  its  novel  of  the  day. 
Thus  the  critics  can  make  a  public — that  is,  a  demand 
— for  any  book,  to  the  profit  of  the  author;  and,  if 
the  book  be  good,  to  the  profit  of  the  community 
also ;  for  some  of  the  volumes  bought  for  mere 
fashion's  sake  must  meet  eyes  that  will  read  them 
for  true  love's  sake. 

Turning  now  to  "  The  Egoist,"  it  may,  I  think,  be 
safely  affirmed  that  Mr.  Meredith's  genius  has  never 
shown  itself  more  keen  and  alert  and  brilliant,  more 
thoroughly  master  of  all  the  materials  requisite  for 
the  work  in  hand  ;  and  that  his  style  has  never  been 
more  swift  and  flexible  and  subtle  for  piercing  to  the 
inmost  heart  of  his  personages,  through  the  triple 
armour  of  conventionality  and  deception  and  self- 
deception.  As  the  work  is  a  Comedy,  it  abounds  in 
dialogue ;  and  I  have  long  deemed  Mr.  Meredith's 
dialogue  not  only  the  best  of  our  age,  but  unsur- 
passed, if  equalled,  in  our  whole  literature :  it  is  so 
spontaneous,  unexpected,  involuntary,  diversified  by 
the  moods,  the  blood,  the  nerves,  the  ever-varying 
circumstances  and  relations  of  the  interlocutors  ;  differ- 
ing thus  in  kind  from  the  dialogue  of  ordinary  novels 
and  plays  just  as  the  actual  interview  between  any 
two  or  more  persons  differs  from  the  suppositious 
interviews  which  each  has  mapped  out  beforehand. 

199 


James  Thomson 


Even  were  there  room  here,  I  should  not  attempt 
a  summary  of  the  plot:  and  as  for  extracts,  the 
whole  book  is  a  precious  extract,  "distilled  thought 
in  distilled  words " ;  the  studious  reader  has  in 
Meredith,  as  in  Browning,  the  delight — so  rare  in 
this  age  of  infinite  empty  scribbling  and  interminable 
chronicling  of  the  smallest  of  small  beer — to  find 
every  sentence  full-charged,  "every  rift  loaded  with 
ore,"  and  with  ore  rich  in  metal.  I  must  confine 
myself  to  merely  indicating  the  chief  characters,  and 
giving  one  or  two  flying  glimpses  of  quality.  The 
central  personage,  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne,  the 
Egoist,  who  with  characteristic  unconsciousness 
furnishes  his  own  title,  is,  I  presume,  one  of  the 
most  thoroughly  studied  and  exhibited  types  in  the 
whole  range  of  literature.  We  get  him  by  heart  in 
all  his  stages  and  phases,  from  the  highest  to  the 
lowest,  from  the  surface  to  the  centre ;  from  his  lordly 
magnificence  and  despotic  bountifulness  as  the  idol 
of  his  little  world,  to  his  most  abject  crouching  and 
slinking  through  the  sloughs  of  falsehood  in  evasion 
of  the  scorn  or  mockery  of  that  very  world  he  detests 
and  despises.  For  there  are  tragic  situations  and 
passions  here  as  in  most  great  comedy;  as  the 
author  well  remarks  at  one  point :  "  Jealousy  had 
invaded  him  [Sir  W.].  He  had  boasted  himself 
above  the  humiliating  visitation.  If  that  had  been 
the  case,  we  should  not  have  needed  to  trouble 
ourselves  much  about  him.  A  run  or  two  with  the 
pack  of  imps  [the  invisible  hounds  of  the  hunting 
Comic  Muse]  would  have  satisfied  us."  Then  there 

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on  The  Egoist 

is  Laetitia  Dale,  "with  a  romantic  tale  on  her  eye- 
lashes " ;  poetical,  thoughtful,  from  girlhood  the  too 
humble  adorer  of  the  Egoist,  who  graciously  permits 
her  unsoliciting  worship.  After  many  years  of  hope 
deferred  and  patient  suffering,  she  is  "an  old  woman 
of  thirty,  with  her  eyes  at  length  sorely  opening  or 
opened ;  "  she  is  coming  three  parts  out  of  her  shell, 
and  wearing  it  as  a  hood  for  convenience."  There 
is  Clara  Middleton,  "dainty  rogue  in  porcelain," 
the  second  betrothed  of  the  Egoist,  whose  first 
betrothed,  "  the  racing  cutter,"  ran  away  and  married 
another  just  before  the  appointed  day.  Clara  is  19 
to  Sir  W.'s  33,  and  her  desperate  struggles  to 
get  free  from  the  engagement  occupy  a  large 
portion  of  the  book.  There  is  Vernon  Whitford, 
"the  lean  long-walker  and  scholar,  Phoebus  Apollo 
turned  fasting  friar " ;  who,  drenched  in  a  storm, 
"  looked  lean  as  a  fork  with  the  wind  whistling 
through  the  prongs."  He  is  Sir  W.'s  poor  cousin 
and  secretary ;  high-minded,  austere,  reticent ;  young, 
but  with  a  sad  past  somewhat  like  that  of  George 
Warrington  in  "  Pendennis."  But  in  the  end  he 
burns  out  gloriously  transfigured.  He  says  of 
Clara,  "She  gives  you  an  idea  of  the  Mountain 
Echo."  There  is  Horace  de  Craye,  colonel  in  the 
Guards,  handsome,  ready-witted,  Norman-Irishman, 
who  says  and  does  most  excellent  things,  and  plays 
an  active  part  in  the  intrigue.  There  is  Dr.  Corney, 
also  Irish,  and  a  little  more  so,  who  drives  Vernon 
demented  by  his  eulogy  of  Clara :  "  I'll  not  call  her 
perfection,  for  that's  a  post,  afraid  to  move.  But 

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James  Thomson 


she's  a  dancing  sprig  of  the  tree  next  it.  Poetry's 
wanted  to  speak  of  her.  I'm  Irish  and  inflammable, 
I  suppose,  but  I  never  looked  on  a  girl  to  make 
a  man  comprehend  the  entire  holy  meaning  of  the 
word  rapturous  like  that  one.  .  .  .  But  you're  a 
Grecian,  friend  Vernon.  Now,  couldn't  you  think 
her  just  the  whiff  of  an  idea  of  a  daughter  of  a 
peccadillo  goddess  ?  "  (Compare  the  delicate  grada- 
tions of  the  Irishry,  in  part  intentional,  in  diction 
and  thought  of  the  aristocratic  guardsman  and  the 
jolly  doctor,  with  the  Cork  brogue  broad  enough  to 
hang  your  hat  on  of  Mrs.  Chump  in  "Emilia  in 
England.")  There  is  Crossjay,  with  whom  Vernon 
charges  himself,  son  of  a  very  poor  relative  of  Sir  W., 
Capt.  Patterne  of  the  Marines ;  "  a  rosy-cheeked, 
round-bodied  rogue  of  a  boy  of  twelve,  with  the 
sprights  of  twelve  boys  in  him,  who  fell  upon  meats 
and  puddings,  and  defeated  them,  with  a  captivating 
simplicity  in  his  confession  that  he  had  never  had 
enough  to  eat  in  his  life.  .  .  .  Subsequently  he  told 
his  host  and  hostess  that  he  had  two  sisters  above 
his  own  age,  and  three  brothers  and  two  sisters 
younger  than  he  :  '  All  hungry ! '  said  the  boy. 
His  pathos  was  most  comical."  Crossjay  is  "real 
grit,"  and  is  of  first-rate  importance  in  the  plot. 
There  is  Mrs.  Mountstuart  Jenkinson,  the  rich  widow, 
kindly,  but  with  a  prompt,  keen  tongue,  responsible 
for  the  character-definitions  above  quoted :  "  Her 
word  sprang  out  of  her.  She  looked  at  you,  and 
forth  it  came ;  and  it  stuck  to  you,  as  nothing 
laboured  or  literary  could  have  done."  While  grand 

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on  The  Egoist 

phrases  are  mouthing  round  about  Sir  W.  on  the 
festival  of  his  majority,  she  says,  "  You  see  he  has 
a  leg."  There  are  two  maiden  aunts,  mere  amiable 
echoes  and  shadows  of  their  idol  the  Egoist ;  and 
two  titled  ladies  of  the  county,  representatives  of  the 
inquisitive  and  tattling  world.  Lastly,  there  is  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Middleton,  the  widowed  father  of  Clara, 
a  scholar  with  an  independent  fortune,  whose  strength 
and  weakness  is  love  of  good  living.  He  is  of  the 
family  of  Drs.  Folliott  and  Oppimian,  with  whom 
you  may  have  excellent  converse  in  the  "  Crotchet 
Castle"  and  "Gryll  Grange"  of  the  humorous  and 
caustic  T.  L.  Peacock ;  but  he  develops  robust  indivi- 
dual characteristics.  He  pronounces  upon  another: 
"  He  is  a  fine  scholar,  but  crochety,  like  all  men 
who  cannot  take  their  Port."  He  can  take  his  Port ; 
and  Port  can  take  him  (not  overtake  him,  mind), 
as  Sir  W.  discovers,  and  uses  it  with  splendid 
effect  on  the  doctor,  with  terrible  recoil  upon  poor 
Clara.  The  richest  chapter  for  jolly  humour  (I 
speak  not  of  the  subtle  and  recondite  humour)  in 
the  whole  work  is  the  second  of  Vol.  II.,  "An 
Aged  and  a  Great  Wine " :  the  gradual  mellowing, 
within  the  limits  of  clerical  decorum,  of  the  doctor 
under  the  influence  of  this,  administered  by  the 
astute  and  patient  designing  Egoist,  is  unsurpass- 
able. I  must  quote  a  little,  to  gain  for  this  scanty 
notice  the  benediction,  "All's  well  that  ends  well " : — 

SIR  W. — "  I  am  going  to  my  inner  cellar."    DR.  M. — 
"  An  inner  cellar  ! "     "  Sacred  from  the  butler.  .  ,  .  My 

203 


James  Thomson 


cellars  are  worth  a  visit."  "Cellars  are  not  catacombs. 
They  are,  if  rightly  constructed,  cloisters,  where  the  bottle 
meditates  on  joys  to  bestow,  not  on  dust  we  misused  !  Have 
you  anything  great  ? "  "A  wine  aged  ninety."  "  Is  it 
associated  with  your  pedigree,  that  you  pronounce  the  age 
with  such  assurance  ? "  "  My  grandfather  inherited  it." 
Your  grandfather,  Sir  W.,  had  meritorious  offspring,  not  to 
speak  of  generous  progenitors.  What  would  have  happened 
had  it  fallen  into  the  female  line !  I  shall  be  glad  to 
accompany  you.  Port  ?  Hermitage  ?  "  "  Port."  "  Ah  ! 
We  are  in  England  ! " 

There  was  a  chirrup  in  the  Rev.  doctor's  tone  :  "  Hocks, 
too,  have  compassed  age.  I  have  tasted  senior  Hocks. 
Their  flavours  are  as  a  brook  of  many  voices ;  they  have 
depth  also.  Senatorial  Port !  we  say.  We  cannot  say  that 
of  any  other  wine.  Port  is  deep-sea  deep.  It  is  in  its 
flavour  deep;  mark  the  difference.  It  is  like  a  classic 
tragedy,  organic  in  conception.  An  ancient  Hermitage  has 
the  light  of  the  antique ;  the  merit  that  it  can  grow  to  an 
extreme  old  age ;  a  merit.  Neither  of  Hermitage  nor  of 
Hock  can  you  say  that  it  is  the  blood  of  those  long  years, 
retaining  the  strength  of  youth  with  the  wisdom  of  age.  To 
Port  for  that !  Port  is  our  noblest  legacy  !  Observe,  I  do 
not  compare  the  wines;  I  distinguish  the  qualities.  Let 
them  live  together  for  our  enrichment ;  they  are  not  rivals 
like  the  Idaean  Three.  Were  they  rivals,  a  fourth  would 
challenge  them.  Burgundy  has  great  genius.  It  does 
wonders  within  its  period ;  it  does  all  except  to  keep  up  in 
the  race  :  it  is  short-lived.  An  aged  Burgundy  ends  with  a 
beardless  Port.  I  cherish  the  fancy  that  Port  speaks  the 
sentences  of  wisdom,  Burgundy  sings  the  inspired  Ode.  Or 
put  it,  that  Port  is  the  Homeric  hexameter,  Burgundy  the 
Pindaric  dithyramb.  What  do  you  say  ?  "  "  The  compari- 
son is  excellent,  sir."  "  The  distinction,  you  would  remark. 

204 


on  The  Egoist 

Pindar  astounds.  But  his  elder  brings  us  the  more  sustaining 
cup.  One  is  a  fountain  of  prodigious  ascent.  One  is  the 
unsounded  purple  sea  of  marching  billows."  "  A  very  fine 
distinction."  "  I  conceive  you  now  to  be  commending  the 
similes.  They  pertain  to  the  time  of  the  first  critics  of 
those  poets.  Touch  the  Greeks,  and  you  can  nothing  new  : 
all  has  been  said :  c  Graiis,  .  .  .  praeter  laudem,  nullius 
avaris.'  Genius  dedicated  to  Fame  is  immortal.  We,  sir, 
dedicate  genius  to  the  cloacaline  floods.  We  do  not 
address  the  unforgetting  gods,  but  the  popular  stomach."  .  .  . 
"Your  opinion  of  the  wine  is  favourable,  sir?"  "I  will 
say  this  :— shallow  souls  run  to  rhapsody.  I  will  say,  that  I 
am  consoled  for  not  having  lived  ninety  years  back,  or  at 
any  period  but  the  present,  by  this  one  glass  of  your 
ancestral  wine."  ...  A  fresh  decanter  was  placed  before 
the  doctor.  He  said  :  "  I  have  but  a  girl  to  give  ! "  He 
was  melted. 

Wherewith  I  commend  the  good  reader  to  a  book 
which  he  will  find  as  well  worth  sipping  slowly  in 
long-lingering  relish  of  its  consummate  fragrance  and 
flavour  and  cordial  potency,  as  the  Rev.  doctor  found 
that  noble  nonagenarian  Port;  Senatorial  Port !  deep- 
sea  deep ! 


205 


THE  TRAGIC   COMEDIANS 


XXI 
JOSEPH  JACOBS 

ON 

THE  TRAGIC  COMEDIANS 

[From  The  Athen&um,  No.  2776,  January  8,  1881,  pp.  49-50.] 

MR.  MEREDITH  describes  his  new  novel  as  "a  study 
in  a  well-known  story."  As  we  have  previously 
informed  our  readers,*  the  well-known  story  is  that 
of  the  tragic  fate  of  Ferdinand  Lassalle,  the  Messiah, 
as  he  is  called,  of  Social  Democracy.  His  lurid  career 
is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  episodes  in  modern 
history.  Equipped  with  all  the  culture  of  his  age, 
as  he  himself  boasted,  he  became  the  ruling  mind 
of  the  German  working  classes.  In  1863  it  was 
commonly  said  in  Germany  that  the  two  foremost 
men  of  the  Fatherland  were  Count  Bismarck  and 
Ferdinand  Lassalle.  In  the  next  year,  in  the  prime 
of  life,  he  fell  in  a  duel,  brought  about  by  an  almost 
insane  passion  for  a  young  girl  under  twenty.  It 
was  natural  that  a  career  like  this  should  attract  the 
interest  of  Mr.  George  Meredith,  who  has  always 
displayed  most  power  in  treating  of  the  phenomenal 
(he  terms  it  the  "  fantastical  ")  in  human  nature. 

*  The  Athetuzum,  No.  2769,  p.  676,  November  20,  1880. 
209  P 


Joseph  Jacobs 

While  his  subject  is  congenial  to  Mr.  Meredith, 
his  method  of  treating  it  is  rather  unusual  among 
novelists  of  the  first  rank.  Shakspeare's  method 
in  the  Roman  plays  is  the  nearest  parallel  that 
suggests  itself.  One  of  the  well-known  facts  of  this 
well-known  story  is  that  in  1879  its  heroine,  Frau 
von  Racowitza,  published  an  apologia  of  the  part 
played  by  her  in  the  tragedy  of  fifteen  years  before. 
What  Plutarch  was  to  Shakspeare,  Frau  von  Raco- 
witza has  been  to  Mr.  Meredith.  It  was  only  just 
that  in  dealing  with  an  historical  event  recourse 
should  be  had  to  historical  sources.  But  some  care 
might  have  been  taken  to  verify  the  accuracy  of 
Frau  von  Racowitza's  account ;  she  confesses  that 
she  trusts  entirely  to  memory,  having  kept  no  diary, 
and  the  dialogues  with  which  she  enlivens  her  book 
at  once  become  suspect.  Against  her  "  Elle  et  lui " 
Herr  Kutschbach  has  published  a  "  Lui  et  elle," 
entitled  "  Lassalle's  Tod,"  based  in  the  main  on 
some  revelations  made  by  Lassalle's  literary  executor. 
These  "  Enthiillungen "  were  equally  accessible,  yet 
we  find  no  trace  of  Mr.  Meredith's  having  consulted 
them,  though  an  allusion  on  p.  74  of  the  second 
volume  indicates  that  he  has  read  Mr.  Ludlow's 
paper  in  the  Fortnightly  Review  of  1869.  Mr. 
Meredith's  study  of  this  well-known  subject  does 
not  appear  to  have  been  particularly  profound,  and 
he  has  been  content  to  follow,  step  by  step,  the 
story  of  Lassalle's  death  as  told  by  the  lady 
who  caused  it.  Every  important  incident  in  the 
novel  is  taken  sine  grano  salts  from  "  Meine 

210 


on  The  Tragic  Comedians 


Beziehungen  zu  Ferdinand  Lassalle." 
says : — 


Mr.  Meredith 


"  Nor  is  there  anything  invented,  because  an  addition 
of  fictitious  incidents  could  never  tell  us  how  she  came  to 
do  this,  he  to  do  that." 

But  it  is  difficult  to  say  that  incidents  have  not 
become  fictitious  when  they  have  been  kept  in  a 
lady's  memory  for  fifteen  years. 

But  not  only  is  every  incident  borrowed  from  this 
somewhat  untrustworthy  source ;  a  large  part  of  the 
conversations  are  adapted  from  Frau  von  Racowitza's 
book.  Before  the  lady  met  Lassalle,  she  says  she 
became  interested  in  him  by  finding  from  a  common 
friend  that  Lassalle  and  she  had  many  ideas  in 
common.  The  conversation  in  which  she  learned 
this  is  given  as  follows  in  the  two  books  (we  omit, 
in  each  case,  the  comments  of  the  author)  : — 


"  Sie  kennen  Lassalle." 

"  Nein." 

"  Sie  kennen  ihn  doch  ! 
So  kann  nur  eine  Dame 
sprechen  die  Lassalle  kennt 
und  seine  Gedanken  theilt." 

"  Nein,  gewiss  nicht  ! 
wer  ist's  denn  ?  " 

"  O  pfui !  verleugnen  Sie 
ihn  nicht !  lassen  Sie  das 
den  kleinen  Seelen  um  uns 
her.  Reichen  wir  uns  die 
Hande  und  sagen  wir  mit 


"  I  see  you  know  Alvan." 
"Indeed  I  do  not." 
"  Surely  you  must;  where 
is  the  lady  who  could  talk 
and  think  as  you  do  without 
knowing  Alvan  and  sharing 
his  views  ! " 

"  But  I  do  not  know 
him  at  all;  I  have  never 
met  him,  never  seen  him. 
I  am  unlikely  to  meet  the 
kind  of  person." 

"  Come,  come,  let  us  be 


211 


Joseph  Jacobs 


Stolz :  wir  kennen  und  lieben 
ihn." 

"  Ach  was — lassen  Sie 
mich  mit  dem  langweiligen 
fremden  Menschen  zufrie- 
den  !  Ich  kenne  ihn  nicht. 
Ich  gebe  Ihnen  mein  Wort 
— meinEhrenwort!  Glauben 
Sie  mir  jetzt  ?  " 

"  Jetzt  muss  ich  es  wohl, 
aber  dann  bedaure  ich  Sie 
und  ihn  nur  jede  Stunde  die 
Ihr  Euch  nicht  kennt,  die 
Ihr  Euch  fern  bleibt.  Denn 
Ihr  sind  wie  fur  einander 
geschaffen." 


honest.  That  is  all  very 
well  for  the  little  midges 
floating  round  us  to  say  of 
Alvan,  but  we  two  can  clasp 
hands  and  avow  proudly 
that  we  both  know  and  love 
the  man." 

"Were  it  true  I  would 
own  it  at  once,  but  I  repeat 
that  he  is  a  total  stranger 
to  me." 

"Actually?" 

"  In  honour." 

"  You  have  never  met, 
never  seen  him,  never  read 
any  of  his  writings  ?  " 

"  Never.  I  have  heard 
his  name,  that  is  all." 

"Then  I  pity  him,  and 
you  no  less,  while  you 
remain  strangers,  for  you 
were  made  for  one  another." 


It  is  fair  to  add  that  Mr.  Meredith  invents  the 
phrases  which  had  caused  the  young  officer  to  think 
Clotilde  had  known  Alvan.  But  the  parallel  is 
sufficiently  close  to  merit  the  name  of  translation. 
And  this  occurs  continually  throughout  Mr.  Meredith's 
book.  We  refer  our  readers  to  pp.  37-8,  42,  44,  56, 
107-8,  112,  137-40  of  the  German,  as  compared  with 
pp.  45-6,  80,  87,  102,  138-9,  148,  179-82  of  the  first 
volume  of  Mr.  Meredith's  "study."  In  the  second 
volume  it  must  be  granted  the  parallels  are  not  so 

212 


on  The  Tragic  Comedians 


frequent,  and  throughout  the  comments  on  the  con- 
versations and  incidents  are  quite  in  Mr.  Meredith's 
own  vein.  But  such  an  amount  of  indebtedness 
surely  deserved  some  more  explicit  acknowledgment 
than  the  following  sentences  at  the  end  : — 

"Years  later  she  wrote  her  version  of  the  story,  not 
sparing  herself  so  much  as  she  supposed.  Providence  and 
her  parents  were  not  forgiven.  But  as  we  are  in  her  debt 
for  some  instruction,  she  may  now  be  suffered  to  go." 

There  is  a  process  familiar  to  those  who  have 
studied  Latin  composition  by  the  name  of  oratio 
obliqua.  Mr.  Meredith's  "Tragic  Comedians"  is  a 
study  in  oblique  narration  ;  he  has  turned  the  first 
person  of  his  original  into  the  third  and  added  his 
own  comments.  It  accordingly  becomes  somewhat 
difficult  to  see  what  there  is  in  this  book  to  criticize. 
The  plot  and  much  of  the  conversation  are  due  to 
Frau  von  Racowitza,  and  the  interest  its  characters 
arouse  is  as  much  owing  to  historical  suggestion  as 
to  the  art  of  the  novelist.  What  remains  of  Mr. 
Meredith's  own  is  his  style,  and  this,  as  everyone 
knows,  is  peculiarly  his  own.  Mr.  Meredith  has  a  habit 
of  condensing  epigrams  into  adverbs  and  allegories 
into  adjectives,  which  render  his  sentences  stimulating, 
but  at  the  same  time  somewhat  hard  reading.  He 
writes,  as  it  were,  by  flashes  of  lightning — throws  out 
a  hint  where  others  would  indite  a  paragraph.  He 
is  sometimes  peculiarly  happy  at  hitting  off  a  cha- 
racter in  a  phrase.  "  The  To-morrower  "  is  his  graphic 
way  of  describing  Clotilde's  irresolution.  We  might 

213 


Joseph  Jacobs 

attempt  to  adopt  his  own  method  of  condensation, 
and  call  his  style  the  "  congested."  It  is  overwrought 
— too  full  of  suggestion.  As  a  specimen  of  it  at  its 
best  a  passage  may  be  quoted  in  which  Mr.  Meredith 
makes  Alvan  (or  Lassalle)  describe  the  character  of 
Bismarck : — 

"Yes,  Ironsides  is  a  fine  fellow  !  but  he  and  I  may  cross. 
His  ideas  are  not  many.  The  point  to  remember  is  that  he 
is  iron  on  them :  he  can  drive  them  hard  into  the  density  of 
the  globe.  He  has  quick  nerves  and  imagination :  he  can 
conjure  up,  penetrate,  and  traverse  complications  —  an 
enemy's  plans,  all  that  the  enemy  will  be  able  to  combine, 
and  the  likeliest  that  he  will  do.  Good.  We  opine  that  we 
are  equal  to  the  same.  He  is  for  kingcraft  to  mask  his 
viziercraft — and  save  him  the  labour  of  patiently  attempting 
oratory  and  persuasion,  which  accomplishment  he  does  not 
possess : — it  is  not  in  iron.  We  think  the  more  precious 
metal  will  beat  him  when  the  broader  conflict  comes.  But 
such  an  adversary  is  not  to  be  underrated.  I  do  not  under- 
rate him;  and  certainly  not  he  me.  Had  be  been  born 
with  the  gifts  of  patience  and  a  fluent  tongue,  and  not  a 
petty  noble,  he  might  have  been  for  the  people,  as  knowing 
them  the  greater  power.  He  sees  that  their  knowledge  of 
their  power  must  eventually  come  to  them.  In  the  mean- 
time his  party  is  forcible  enough  to  assure  him  he  is  not 
fighting  a  losing  game  at  present :  and  he  is,  no  doubt,  by 
lineage  and  his  traditions  monarchical.  He  is  curiously 
simple,  not  really  cynical.  His  apparent  cynicism  is  sheer 
irritability.  His  contemptuous  phrases  are  directed  against 
obstacles  :  against  things,  persons,  nations  that  oppose  him 
or  cannot  serve  his  turn  :  against  his  king,  if  his  king  is 
restive ;  but  he  respects  his  king :  against  your  friends' 
country,  because  there  is  no  fixing  it  to  a  line  of  policy,  and 

214 


on  The  Tragic  Comedians 


it  seems  to  have  collapsed ;  but  he  likes  that  country  the 
best  in  Europe  after  his  own.  He  is  nearest  to  contempt  in 
his  treatment  of  his  dupes  and  tools,  who  are  dropped  out  of 
his  mind  when  he  has  quite  squeezed  them  for  his  occasion  ; 
to  be  taken  up  again  when  they  are  of  use  to  him.  Hence 
he  will  have  no  following.  But  let  me  die  to-morrow,  the 
party  I  have  created  survives.  In  him  you  see  the  dam,  in 
me  the  stream.  Judge,  then,  which  of  us  gains  the  future  ! 
— admitting  that  in  the  present  he  may  beat  me.  He  is  a 
Prussian,  stoutly  denned  from  a  German,  and  yet  again  a 
German  stoutly  denned  from  our  borderers ;  and  that  com- 
pletes him.  He  has  as  little  the  idea  of  humanity  as  the  sword 
of  our  Hermann,  the  cannon-ball  of  our  Frederick.  Observe 
him.  What  an  eye  he  has  !  I  watched  it  as  we  were  talk- 
ing : — and  he  has,  I  repeat,  imagination  ;  he  can  project  his 
mind  in  front  of  him  as  far  as  his  reasoning  on  the  possible 
allows :  and  that  eye  of  his  flashes ;  and  not  only  flashes, 
you  see  it  hurling  a  bolt ;  it  gives  me  the  picture  of  a 
Balearic  slinger  about  to  whizz  the  stone:  for  that  eye 
looks  far,  and  is  hard,  and  is  dead  certain  of  its  mark — 
within  his  practical  compass,  as  I  have  said." 

It  is  somewhat  difficult  to  judge  this  novel  "on  its 
merits."  If  we  had  not  read  Frau  von  Racowitza's 
book  we  might  have  placed  "  The  Tragic  Comedians  " 
very  high  among  the  brilliant  productions  with  which 
Mr.  Meredith  has  enriched  English  fiction.  And 
certainly  readers  who  are  ignorant  of  the  original  will 
do  well  to  read  Mr.  Meredith's  adaptation,  which  is 
as  stimulating  in  style,  and  at  least  as  lucid  in  arrange- 
ment, as  anything  else  he  has  given  to  the  world, 


215 


XXII 
THE  DAILY  NEWS 

ON 

THE  TRAGIC  COMEDIANS 

[From  The  Daily  News,  No.  10852,  p.  3,  January  27,  1881.] 

MR.  GEORGE  MEREDITH  may  well  call  the  hero  and 
heroine  of  his  two  latest  volumes  "  The  Tragic 
Comedians "  (Chapman  and  Hall).  The  tragedy  of 
the  story  is  profound  if  the  comedy  of  it  is  fantastical. 
To  turn  back  from  the  last  chapter,  detailing  the 
miserable  end  of  an  almost  insane  passion,  and  read 
again  the  scene  in  which  the  two  chief  actors  in  it 
first  met,  is  like  taking  a  survey  of  human  action  such 
as  may  provoke  the  gods  to  amazement  and  scornful 
laughter.  The  luminous  atmosphere  of  intellectual 
and  emotional  life  in  which  Alvan  and  Clotilde  meet 
for  the  first  time,  the  electric  flashes  their  natures 
strike  forth  in  their  spiritual  contact,  and  the  height 
of  sincere  passion  one  of  them  reaches,  and  the  other 
at  least  touches  through  sympathy  and  attraction, 
form  a  contrast  to  the  mean  and  mournful  catastrophe 
it  was  all  to  end  in  so  striking  that  it  seems  to  reveal 
human  nature  under  a  fresh  and  most  fantastic  light. 
That  the  events  are  historical,  not  fictitious,  adds  to 

216 


The  Daily  News  on  The  Tragic  Comedians 

the  excitement  of  the  narration,  while  it  in  no  way 
lessens  our  sense  of  the  skill,  brilliance,  and  power  of 
the  writer  who  describes  them.  It  is  no  less  the 
worthy  work  of  a  student  of  the  comedy  of  life  to 
analyse  and  explain  the  strange,  abnormal  character 
he  finds  ready  to  his  hand  than  to  build  up  from 
imaginative  sources  ideal  figures  which  he  moulds  to 
his  own  will.  So  extraordinary,  to  use  Mr.  Mere- 
dith's own  word,  so  incredible  is  the  conduct  of  the 
two  beings  who  acted  and  re-acted  on  each  other  to 
their  common  destruction  and  to  the  world's  loss, 
that  were  it  invented  people  would  reject  it  as,  if 
not  quite  impossible,  certainly  too  improbable  for 
artistic  use.  Some  modification  of  the  apparent 
incongruity  may  perhaps  be  sought  for  in  the  cir- 
cumstance that  this  tragic  story  of  the  German  "  Elle 
et  Lui "  has  been  taken  from  the  version  of  "  Elle  " 
alone.  Certain  it  is  that  no  two  people  ever  appear 
to  have  stood  closer  to  a  great  happiness  and  missed 
it  than  the  Alvan  and  Clotilde  of  Mr.  Meredith's 
parable.  It  is  true  he  cannot  tell  us  "  how  she  came 
to  do  this,  he  to  do  that,  or  how  the  comic  in  their 
natures  led  by  interplay  to  the  tragic  issue."  But  he 
has  in  a  wonderful  way,  and  with  a  command  of  bril- 
liant language  all  his  own,  analysed  and  commented 
on  an  episode  of  life  as  strange,  as  mystifying,  and  as 
interesting  as  is  to  be  found  in  the  repertory  of  the 
world's  dramas.  The  personages  are  few  and  the 
action  brief.  Fateful,  however,  and  tragic  is  the 
story  as  an  old  Greek  play. 


217 


POEMS    AND   LYRICS   OF  THE 
JOY  OF   EARTH 


XXIII 

MARK  PATTISON 

ON 

POEMS  AND   LYRICS   OF  THE  JOY  OF 
EARTH 

[From    The  Academy,   vol.  xxiv.,   No.  585,   pp.  37-38,  July  21, 
1883.] 

THIS  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable,  perhaps  the 
most  remarkable,  of  the  volumes  of  verse  which  have 
been  put  out  during  the  last  few  years.  But,  indeed, 
the  name  of  the  author  is  a  sufficient  guarantee  that 
so  it  would  be ;  Mr.  George  Meredith  is  known  to  be 
little  given  to  offering  his  readers  that  which  is 
common. 

Mr.  Meredith  is  well  known,  by  name,  to  the  widest 
circle  of  readers — the  novel-readers.  By  name,  because 
his  name  is  a  label  warning  them  not  to  touch.  They 
know  that  in  volumes  which  carry  that  mark  they 
will  not  find  the  comfortable  conventionalities  and 
paste  diamonds  which  make  up  their  ideal  of  "life." 
Worse  than  this,  Mr.  Meredith's  prose  requires  atten- 
tion— an  impertinent  requirement  on  the  part  of  a 
novelist.  Everybody  knows  that  we  go  to  a  novel 

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in  order  that  we  may  occupy  a  vacant  mind  without 
giving  attention. 

To  a  higher,  and  vastly  smaller,  circle  of  readers, 
Mr.  Meredith's  stories— "The  Ordeal  of  Richard 
Feverel,"  "Emilia  in  England,"  "Vittoria,"  "The 
Egoist" — are  known  as  creations,  singular  without 
being  eccentric,  but  whose  singularity  is  marked  by 
an  imaginative  presentment  rather  than  by  any 
special  attraction  of  the  characters  and  events  pre- 
sented. There  is  an  atmosphere  of  poetry  about 
the  doings  of  his  personages  which  gives  us  a 
happy  fairy-land  sensation,  even  when,  as  is  often 
the  case,  we  do  not  much  care  for  the  doings 
themselves.  The  circle  (a  select  one)  of  the  readers 
of  these  novels,  know  that  Mr.  Meredith  is  a  poet 
— in  prose.  Perhaps  some  of  them  may  not  know 
that  he  is  a  poet  in  the  more  usual  acceptation  of 
the  term.  Two  little  ventures  of  the  usual  "  minor 
poetry "  class,  some  thirty  or  more  years  back,  had 
the  inevitable  fate  of  such  volumes,  came  into  the 
hands  of  but  few,  and  were  soon  forgotten  even  by 
them.  As  Mr.  Meredith  does  not  include  these 
poems  in  the  list  of  his  works  which  he  has  allowed 
to  be  given  on  the  fly-leaf  of  the  present  volume, 
perhaps  he  is  now  unwilling  to  own  them,  and  desires 
to  have  them  regarded  as  "juvenilia."  Any  com- 
parison of  the  present  George  Meredith  with  the 
George  Meredith  who  had  not  yet  stamped  his 
quality  upon  "  The  Shavings  (sic)  of  Shagpat "  would 
be  waste  of  labour.  Yet  I  could  almost  fancy  that 
more  than  one  of  the  pieces  in  the  new  volume  are 

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on  Poems  and  Lyrics  of  the  Joy  of  Earth 

developments  of  germs  deposited  in  the  earlier  epoch 
of  thought 

What  is  true  of  a  whole  poetic  career  is  also  true 
of  any  volume  of  collected  pieces  composed  at  long 
intervals.  No  one,  not  even  a  critic,  is  always  at  his 
best.  But  in  poetry  we  may  go  further,  and  say  that 
the  best  of  any  poet  is  so  rare  and  costly  that  it  is 
indeed  "paucorum  horarum."  Take,  e.g.,  the  six 
volumes  of  Wordsworth's  Poetical  Works,  and  count 
the  pieces — nay,  rather,  the  lines — in  which  Words- 
worth is  at  Wordsworth's  best.  We  may  strike  out 
everything  written  after  1809,  the  most  of  it  being 
not  only  below  Wordsworth,  but  absolutely  unworthy 
of  him.  All  that  is  instinct  with  vital  power  in 
Wordsworth  might  be  contained  in  a  volume  of  much 
less  compass  than  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold's  Selections. 
A  few  sheets  of  letterpress  would  give  us  all  that  can 
live  of  Wordsworth — all  except  the  Wordsworthian 
"Self";  and  to  distil  this  essence  we  must  have  the 
whole  of  the  nine  books  of  the  "  Excursion  "  and  the 
whole  of  the  fourteen  books  of  the  "  Prelude." 

It  is,  therefore,  no  disparagement  to  say  of  the 
poems  in  the  present  volume  that  they  are  unequal 
in  poetic  merit.  They  all  have  the  Meredithian 
quality,  but  in  varying  degrees  of  perfection.  They 
are  all  out  of  the  same  vineyard,  but  of  different 
vintages.  To  come  to  details,  "  Love  in  the  Valley," 
e.g.)  does  not  rise  in  general  conception  and  design 
above  the  average  level  of  the  "  minor  poet "  as  we 
know  him.  For  this  reason  it  will  probably  be  one 
of  the  most  popular.  It  has  also  the  ordinary  fault 

223 


Mark  Pattison 


of  the  modern  English  poetry — diffuseness,  the  beat- 
ing out  of  a  small  particle  of  metal  into  too  thin  foil. 
Yet "  Love  in  the  Valley  "  is  redeemed  from  common- 
ness by  single  strokes  which  are  not  within  the  reach 
of  every  day,  as  well  as  by  a  vigour  of  language 
which  is  Mr.  Meredith's  own  property  among  all  his 
competitors.  Take  this  stanza,  descriptive  of  morning 
light  :— 

"  Happy,  happy  time,  when  the  white  star  hovers 

Low  over  dim  fields  fresh  with  bloomy  dew, 
Near  the  face  of  dawn,  that  shows  athwart  the  darkness, 

Threading  it  with  colour,  like  yew  berries  the  yew. 
Thicker  crowd  the  shades  as  the  grave  East  deepens 

Glowing,  and  with  crimson  a  long  cloud  swells. 
Maiden  still  the  morn  is,  and  strange  she  is  and  secret ; 

Strange  her  eyes  ;  her  cheeks  are  cold  as  cold  sea-shells." 

I  do  not  defend  "bloomy"  here  said  of  dew.  Mr. 
Meredith  might  have  learned  the  meaning  of  "  bloomy  " 
from  Milton,  who  uses  it  properly  of  the  spray  burst- 
ing into  leaf  in  an  English  April.  To  apply  "  bloomy  " 
to  dew  is  too  like  that  deplacement  of  epithet  which 
is  one  of  the  tricks  by  which  the  modern  school  of 
poets  seeks  to  supply  a  spurious  originality. 

"  The  Lay  (sic)  of  the  Daughter  of  Hades  "  is  also 
liable  to  the  charge  of  diffuseness.  And  it  has  the 
more  serious  fault  of  being  a  versified  treatment  of  a 
legend  provided  by  the  Greek  mythology.  Because 
the  Greek  mythology  is  the  most  poetical  known  to 
us,  it  is  natural  to  conceive  that  it  must  be  good 
"  material "  for  a  poem.  It  was  still  possible  in 

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on  Poems  and  Lyrics  of  the  Joy  of  Earth 

Milton's  day,  it  was  just  possible  for  Gray,  to  vivify  a 
classical  myth.  Even  Gray  only  appeals  to  "  Delphi's 
Steep,"  etc.,  incidentally  ;  he  does  not  insist  on  the 
classic  theme.  In  the  time  in  which  we  live,  classical 
personages  are  too  remote  from  the  imaginative 
sphere  of  all  but  a  score  or  two  of  Greek  scholars  to 
be  helps  to  illusion.  The  nineteenth-century  poetical 
reader  knows  nothing  of  Grecian  Sicily.  It  is  super- 
adding  another  difficulty,  which  is  superfluous,  to  one 
which  is  inherent  in  the  nature  of  the  case.  We  have 
to  make  a  separate  effort  to  get  together  the  Greek 
imagery,  in  addition  to  the  effort  which  all  poetry 
demands  of  passing  beyond  the  stereotype  forms  of 
every-day  life  to  the  spirit  within  them.  Skiageneia, 
the  daughter  of  Hades,  is  a  thoroughly  Burne  Jones 
maiden,  tall  as  a  poplar,  with  a  "  throat "  and  a  wan 
smile,  with  "  redness  that  streamed  through  her  limbs 
in  a  flitting  glow." 

The  piece  which  gives  its  character  to  the  volume, 
and  raises  the  whole  above  the  average  of  the  repro- 
ductions of  Rossetti  with  which  we  are  familiar,  is  the 
first,  which  is  entitled  "  The  Woods  of  Westermain." 
This  piece  seizes  the  imagination  with  a  power  which 
the  vague  and  rather  featureless  "  Daughter  of  Hades  " 
does  not  possess.  Many  poets  have  signalled  the 
romance  that  lies  in  forest  depths,  "  the  calling  shapes 
and  beckoning  shadows."  No  poetical  forest  has 
surpassed  in  wealth  of  suggestion  "the  woods  of 
Westermain."  In  these  woods  is  no  wizardry  ;  no 
supernatural  agents  are  at  work.  But  if  you  enter 
them  with  a  poet's  eye  and  a  poet's  sensibility,  you 

225  Q 


Mark  Pattison 


may  see  and  hear  that  natural  magic  which  surpasses 
all  the  fictitious  tales  of  sorcerers,  witches,  wood 
gods,  of  Fauns  and  Dryads.  The  poem  teaches,  not 
didactically — for  nothing  is  farther  from  its  form  or 
its  thought  than  the  inculcation  of  doctrine — how 
what  we  see  depends  upon  what  we  are ;  how 
transcendent  influences  are  only  to  be  approached 
through  the  real — the  transmuted  by  the  soul  of  the 
seer : 

"  Even  as  dewlight  off  the  rose 
In  the  mind  a  jewel  sows. 
Look  you  with  the  soul  you  see't" 

The  doctrine  is  old  enough;  the  gsychology  of 
religion  and  that  of  poetry  agree  in  it.  Keats's 
Endymion,  baffled  in  the  search  of  the  ideal,  learns 
to  find  it  in  the  real.  In  "  the  woods  of  Westermain  " 
— ordinary  woods,  peopled  only  by  the  squirrel  and 
the  snake,  the  green  woodpecker  and  the  night-jar — 
you  may  read  the  whole  history  of  the  origin  and 
development  of  things,  from  the  time  "when  mind 
was  mud,"  "  earth  a  slimy  spine,  Heaven  a  space  for 
winging  tons."  It  is  wholly  in  your  own  power 
what  you  shall  make  of  earth.  As  you  choose  to 
look,  she  is  either  a  dust-filled  tomb  or  radiant  with 
the  blush  of  morning.  Gaze  under,  and  the  soul  is 
rich  past  computing.  You  must  not  only  look,  you 
must  put  off  yourself,  sink  your  individuality,  you 
must  let  her  "  two-sexed  meanings  melt  through  you, 
wed  the  thought."  Your  rich  reward  will  not  only  be 
in  the  power  of  understanding,  but  in  a  quickening 

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on  Poems  and  Lyrics  of  the  Joy  of  Earth 

joy,  the  "joy  of  earth"  showered  upon  you  without 
stint. 

"  Drink  the  sense  the  notes  infuse 

You  a  larger  self  will  find ; 
Sweetest  fellowship  ensues 
With  the  creatures  of  your  kind." 

In  contrast  with  the  pessimistic  tone  and  despairing 
notes  of  the  modern  school,  Mr.  Meredith  offers  "  a 
song  of  gladness,"  and  smiles  with  Shakespere  at  a 
generation  "  ranked  in  gloomy  noddings  over  life." 

Such  seems  to  be  the  drift  of  this  remarkable 
lyric,  remarkable  rather  for  its  expression  than  for  its 
contents.  Unfortunately,  Mr.  Meredith's  healthy 
wisdom  is  veiled  in  the  obscurity  of  a  peculiar 
language  which  makes  even  his  general  drift  doubt- 
ful, and  the  meaning  of  many  score  lines  absolute 
darkness.  Some  writers,  whom  it  is  a  fashion  to 
admire,  are  obscure  by  twisting  plain  things  with 
words  that  are  not  plain.  They  make  platitudes  into 
verbal  puzzles.  Mr.  Meredith's  obscurity  proceeds 
from  a  better  motive.  He  knows  that  poetry  can 
only  suggest,  and  destroys  itself  if  it  affirms.  And 
as  the  moods  he  desires  to  suggest  are  remote  from 
common  experience,  so  also  must  the  suggestive 
imagery  be.  Even  the  English  language  is  inade- 
quate to  his  requirements,  and  he  tries  to  eke  it  out 
by  daring  compounds.  The  same  resource  tried  long 
ago  by  Aeschylus  was  found  to  degenerate  into 
bombast  in  a  language  which  lends  itself  more  readily 
to  compounds  than  ours  does.  In  Mr.  Meredith's 

227  Q  2 


Mark  Pattison 


lines  these  compounds  have  seldom  the  merit  of 
being  happily  formed  or  of  condensing  expression. 
If  we  allow  that  their  use  originated  in  the  poverty 
of  the  existing  language,  the  habit  of  employing 
them  constantly  and  upon  all  occasions  grows  up 
from  their  trouble-saving  convenience.  They  are 
stopgaps,  and  fill  the  place  when  the  sense  cannot  be 
moulded  into  words  proper  without  an  expenditure  of 
time  which  no  modern  writer  will  give.  That  the 
habit  has  settled  itself  upon  Mr.  Meredith's  pen  the 
following  sample,  taken  from  a  very  few  pages,  will 
show.  We  have — poppy-droop  ;  bronze-orange  ; 
swan-wave  ;  shore-bubble  ;  rock-sourced  ;  lost-to- 
light;  instant-glancing;  iron-resounding;  spear-fitted  ; 
fool-flushed  ;  ripple-feathered  ;  dew-delighted  ;  foun- 
tain -  showers ;  stripe  -  shadowed  ;  treasure  -  armful ; 
circle-windsails  ;  bully-drawlers ;  and  so  on  without 
stint  or  limit.  How  many  in  the  above  collection, 
gathered  at  random,  can  be  said  to  recommend  them- 
selves by  their  own  elegance,  or  to  be  indispensable  to 
the  sense  required,  which  most  do  but  feebly  express  ? 
That  I  may  not  take  an  ungracious  leave  of  a 
volume  in  which  may  be  found  so  much  to  interest,  I 
give  a  specimen  of  the  sonnets,  of  which  there  are 
some  twenty-three  in  the  volume. 

EARTH'S  SECRET. 

"  Not  solitarily  in  fields  we  find 

Earth's  secret  open,  though  one  page  is  there  ; 
Her  plainest,  such  as  children  spell  and  share 
With  bird  and  beast ;  raised  letters  for  the  blind. 
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on  Poems  and  Lyrics  of  the  Joy  of  Earth 

Not  where  the  troubled  passions  toss  the  mind, 

In  turbid  cities,  can  the  key  be  bare. 

It  hangs  for  those  who  hither  thither  fare, 
Close  interthreading  nature  with  our  kind. 
They  hearing  History  speak  of  what  men  were 

And  have  become,  are  wise.    The  gain  is  great 

In  vision  and  solidity ;  it  lives. 
Yet  at  a  thought  of  life  apart  from  her 

Solidity  and  vision  lose  their  state 

For  Earth  that  gives  the  milk,  the  spirit  gives." 


THE  END 


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